My Name is Elanor: Get me out of here!
by princess finwe
Summary: COMPLETE - Attempting to resurrect the "girl gets thrown into Middle Earth" fanfic. Elanor (hygiene-obsessed and with absolutely zero survival skills) gets landed in Middle Earth, her sister's favourite book series. **Book storyline w/ OC** [NOT Mary Sue or 10th Walker]
1. A Festival

**Welcome readers, to instalment #1 of my first published _Lord of the Rings_ fanfic!**

 **Now, without further ado... you can start reading! ^_^**

* * *

The sounds of revelry echoed through the warm, summer evening and drifted lazily heavenward. Tents squatted in rows upon the coarsely-clipped grass, interspersed with merry fires and contingents of tireless dancers.

It was an entirely primordial cacophony; all shouts and crackling wood and jubilant voices raised in song. The absence of engines and busy phones was at once both foreign and comforting as Elanor stood observing the scene before her.

Her eyes growing heavy, she angled towards a campfire, her supple leather boots treading softly upon the worn grass. The air reeked of human sweat and roasting lamb, causing her to wrinkle a small, upturned nose as she neared the source of the latter aroma. Logs were positioned about the campfire, and many were retiring from the wild dance as the night grew old.

"Ellie!"

Elanor turned to find the source of the call. A younger girl with a mass of light brown hair bounded towards her, chest heaving and cheeks flushed red.

"Ellie," she gasped, grinning nonetheless. "Come sit over here - I'm totally wrecked from dancing." She took Elanor's hand and led her to an empty log, upon which she collapsed gracelessly.

Elanor sat more slowly, and turned to peruse her sister with a raised eyebrow. "Georgia, you stink."

Georgia laughed and tugged at the bodice of her gown. "That's what happens after a week without deodorant."

"Sweating like a pig probably doesn't help," the older sister quipped, bumping Georgia's shoulder playfully. "Did you meet any nice guys?"

Georgia's cheeks turned a darker shade of crimson as she arched her eyebrows. "That's what you're after, is it?"

"No," grinned Elanor. "I have Tim, remember?"

Her younger sister pursed her lips ruefully. "Oh, don't I know it. But to answer your question, yes, there were plenty of handsome ones if you could overlook the smell of them."

"Write their numbers down, and text them after we get home - once they've had a chance to get clean," Elanor replied, sagely.

Georgia laughed once more, then sighed. "I'll be sad when the festival's over, Ellie. Won't you?"

"Of course," nodded Elanor. "I'll just be so glad to get into a nice hot shower tomorrow and my soft pyjamas, and watch the latest episode of _Suits_ —"

"You'd never survive the real middle ages, Elanor," scoffed Georgia. "You need to embrace it! It's relaxing, not to have to worry about being clean, and pick clothes every day."

Elanor shook her head vigorously. "Not for me. Besides," she twinkled, gesturing to the blonde hair which curled becomingly to her chin, "I always wear my hair out."

"You should've gotten a wig, then we could've actually looked like sisters!"

The elder of the two smiled. The resemblance between the Ravenscroft girls was not particularly evident; where Elanor was tall, fair and slender, Georgia was short and rosy. Her hair was darker, and her eyes a bewitching shade of hazel framed by black lashes.

The pair fell silent for a moment, watching the flames dancing as exuberantly as the people at the festival. Elanor brushed a curl behind her ear, thoughts lingering on her return to civilisation the next day. She would be glad for the luxuries of her Brisbane apartment, and the long-awaited embrace of her boyfriend when she met him for dinner.

Glancing to her right, she studied her sister's profile. Georgia's countenance was alight with pleasure, her pink lips parted in an awed smile. She wore the home-spun green dress with something akin to grace, slim fingers toying with her Celtic girdle. Georgia was enraptured by history and fantasy, and treasured their family's week-long excursion each summer to the festival. Elanor ruefully eyed her own dress, wishing for nothing more than her high-waisted jeans and a t-shirt, despite the becoming way it fell about her waist.

"We should turn in," she said softly, touching Georgia on the arm.

Georgia nodded wistfully. "I suppose." Grasping Elanor's hand, the sisters rose and made their way back to their family tent.

* * *

"Georgia! Will you hurry up!" cried Elanor in exasperation.

The slight, exuberant girl reluctantly broke free of her embrace. She was wildly bidding farewell to half a dozen new friends, before stumbling back towards Elanor. The latter stood with hands planted firmly on her waist, brow furrowed.

"Georgia, Mum and Dad are just packing the car. We need to get our stuff from the tent or we won't leave before nightfall!"

"Yes, yes," huffed Georgia, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. "We all _know_ you've got a date with Tim tonight, you never shut up about it. We'll be back in time! Just chill." With that, she turned on her heel, and flounced off in the other direction.

Elanor exhaled slowly. Georgia was full of fire, and irrepressibly outgoing. Elanor had confined herself to mingling with her family and a cluster of other university students, whilst her younger sister had managed to charm the entire festival contingent within the course of a week. Frustrated as she was, Elanor could not help envying her sister's charm and ability to worm her way into people's hearts so swiftly.

Rolling her neck to ease the tension in her shoulders, Elanor turned and followed Georgia back towards the tent. Pulling the flap, she saw the canvas room empty - and her sisters belongings strewn just as haphazardly across the floor as ever.

"Ellie? Georgie? Are you nearly ready?"

Elanor pursed her lips as she faced her mother. "Georgia's disappeared again. I sent her back here, she's just too busy saying goodbye to pack up."

Kate Ravenscroft - a pleasant-looking woman in her mid-forties - gave Elanor a knowing smile. "I have a few more things to help your father with. Could you pick up her stuff and then go find her? We'll meet you at the car."

A resigned expression on her face, Elanor nodded, and proceeded to gather Georgia's miscellaneous items. Into a large, black backpack went a coarse woollen blanket, a small torch, and several pairs of underwear.

Irked that Georgia had somehow thought it necessary to bring _Magician, The Lord of the Rings_ and another Tolkien book she didn't recognise called _The Silmarillion_ , Elanor swept them into the bag carelessly and surveyed the remnants. Only her sister's staff and knife belt - objects which Georgia was very proud of - were left. Swinging the backpack over her shoulders, Elanor picked up the staff and knife belt and exited the tent.

Several metres away, an organisational crew was dismantling tents that had already been vacated by more organised families. A group of students that Elanor recognised were loitering about a campfire, and she gave them a perfunctory wave of the hand before setting off in the opposite direction, calling Georgia's name.

The festival was established each year in a paddock slashed by an obliging farmer. Tents were constructed in long rows, and dozens of families migrated from all along the east coast of Australia to enjoy the somewhat limited pleasures of bathing infrequently, eating heartily, and engaging in archaic activities such as sword fighting, jousting, and archery. Georgia had swiftly established a reputation as an adept staff-wielder, and placed reasonably in the knife-throwing contest. Elanor had preferred to confine her activities to a display of horsemanship, at which she was fairly successful but still fell second to Georgia.

She grumbled under her breath as she followed the main thoroughfare through the campgrounds. The land sloped up slightly, leading to a gentle hill a hundred metres distant. Seeing a small figure at the top of the rise, Elanor continued laboriously, cursing the weight of her sister's books.

By the time she reached the summit, she was breathing harder than usual and glaring about the grass-covered slope. There was no sign of her sister, save for a trampled track through the grass leading down the other side.

"Georgia Ravenscroft!" she stormed. "You come back! I'm not coming after you!"

There was no sound, save for the distant voices of those in the campgrounds, and a breeze stirring the grass.

Frowning slightly, Elanor squinted for a better view down the hill. There was no movement. As she made to retreat, she heard a thin, girlish yell, and instantly swivelled towards the source of the noise.

"Georgia? Georgia! Are you alright?" she cried, worry replacing frustration as she stumbled down the hill. "Georgia! _Georgia!_ "

Nothing. She combed the slope for a quarter of an hour, weaving through the grass that snagged her skirt. As sweat dripped into her eyes, she paused in frustration.

"Georgia," she growled. "If this is a joke, come out now, because it is _not_ funny!"

Again, silence met her menacing shouts. Making an angry noise in her throat, she began the arduous climb back up the hill, swiping tufts of grass with Georgia's staff in her frustration. The summer sun was beginning to beat down on her, despite it only being mid-morning. By she reached the top for the second time, her shoulders were throbbing from the weight of the backpack, and she slipped it off as she stood facing the campground.

At least, facing where the campground should have been.

The landscape was no longer flat and smooth, but the hill upon which she stood swept down to meet the base of another, not far distant. To her right she could make out the blur of snow-capped mountains, and as she stood, gaping, a cool breeze swept down from the north.

There was no sign of the tents that had been there only half an hour before, nor the glint of sun on car windshields some distance away. There was nothing but the waving grass, which appeared different even as Elanor studied it with an expression of horror.

She dropped to her knees beside the backpack, mouth agape.

"Oh my gosh."

* * *

 **Thanks for reading, friends!**

 **This is something I have wanted to do for a very, very long time, and am delighted to finally have the time, energy, and means to work on something so dear to my heart.**

 **Just putting a few things out there now;**

 **Firstly, I am an avid Tolkien fan (as you can probably guess by my bio!). Therefore, as I am writing, I really make an effort to stick to Tolkien's legendarium as best as I can; I try and make my characters as he has written them, and when describing historical events, to do my research thoroughly. I'm not claiming to be amazing at it, but I do make the effort to avoid giving you super cringe-worthy moments.**

 **Secondly, I love reviews! So if you'd be so kind as to leave me one at the end of this chapter, or another chapter, I would appreciate it very much. :) Constructive criticism is great! I will take that on board, though not if you're just attacking me or my writing.**

 **And finally...**

 **A huge thankyou to 95Rose, a good friend of mine, for proofing these chapters and helping me nut out my ideas for the story.**

 **I really hope you liked this; chapter 2 is up for you as well, and should be swiftly followed by 3 and 4 (which are already complete and just undergoing proof-reading).**

 **Reviews are awesome! Please leave me one if you can. :)**

 **Have an awesome day!**

 **Finwe x**


	2. The dream that wouldn't go away

**...and so begins Chapter 2 of _My Name is Elanor: Get me out of here!_**

 **I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1; Elanor and I are in it for the long haul!**

* * *

After a short time, the rough grass pressed uncomfortably on Elanor's knees, and she stood up. One hand rested on her mouth and she could feel tears stinging at the back of her eyes.

"No, it can't be, it's fine, it's fine," she muttered, spinning around to survey the land behind her. It was equally desolate, and utterly unrecognisable.

Her heart was beginning to hammer, as she kicked the backpack aside and scrambled to her left. Her feet caught on tussocks and she fell forward, arms windmilling uncontrollably. The impact of the fall caused the gathering tears to spill onto her cheeks in frustration.

"It was just there," she sobbed, panic rising and knees stinging as she dragged herself upwards.

In a frenzy, she staggered back the other way, desperate to catch a glimpse of the campsite, Georgia, or anything remotely familiar.

"Oh gosh," she gasped, covering her face. "Oh gosh."

She did not know how long she wandered madly, before falling facedown upon the grass and allowing the sobs to come in earnest.

* * *

The sun had reached its zenith by the time Elanor managed to sit up. She rubbed her tearstained and itchy face with the heel of her hand and attempted to still her quivering breaths.

Desperately hoping that the campsite would have reappeared, she scanned the horizon blearily.

No such luck.

Muttering a curse under her breath, she tucked her hair behind her ears and stood up shakily. She had clearly lost her way - it was the only explanation. Somehow, in the course of that fifteen minutes on the hillside, she had strayed from the path.

Nodding to reassure herself, she reached down the front of her dress to where her phone was concealed in her bra. The festival campsite had no reception, but perhaps on the hill she would be able to call her parents or Tim.

 _Zero bars_. _Great._

Undaunted, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. It was ok; she could do this.

Georgia's backpack lay forlornly on the grass, and Elanor scooped it up. Surveying the staff and knife belt with distaste, she added them to her load and surveyed her surroundings.

The land was dotted with hills and great rocky outcroppings. Some distance away she could see a small copse of trees,and a range of mountains stood at a great distance to her right; an uncomfortable reminder that they had most undoubtedly not been present that morning.

"It's ok," she muttered. "Ugh, Georgia. Now, where to go?"

Direction was a dilemma. The sun was overhead, and she had never had Georgia's knack for using it as a point of reference. She was comforted by the knowledge that it would set eventually, and she would discover west.

Provided she was not utterly disoriented - which was a distinct possibility, she forced herself to admit - the campsite should be directly down the slope in front, and up the following hill. She would take that way, which took her slightly towards those accusing mountains.

Her nose ran frustratingly as she trod carefully down the hill, trying to keep her footing amongst the rough tussocks. The next slope was somewhat steeper, and she was panting as she navigated a scattering of boulders near the crest.

Chewing her lip, she glanced around hopefully as she gained her vantage point. The campsite remained as elusive as ever. Panic began to uncoil itself in her chest. The valley was completely unfamiliar, an expanse of sweeping grass that swept before her for many kilometres.

She was hopelessly, frighteningly lost.

* * *

Dusk was beginning to fall as Elanor stumbled forward. The brisk night air echoed with her desperate sobs as she scuffed through dirt and grass. She had lost her sense of direction many hours ago, as the tears blurred her eyes and animal terror clouded any sense of reason.

The night was far too cold for an Australian summer, and the grass shockingly brown after the inordinate amount of tropical rain they had received the previous week.

Eventually her legs gave out as both feet protested fiercely, like she had run 10km in a pair of heels. Somewhere in her frenzied flight she had discarded both Georgia's staff and knife belt, but couldn't muster any concern for her sister's treasures.

Despite the frigid air, the back of her dress was damp with sweat, and she began to shiver as she fell awkwardly down, one knee tucked up beneath her. She had long since run out of tears, but her shoulders shook uncontrollably as she threw the backpack to the ground.

Unzipping it with numb fingers, she pulled out the coarse blanket she had packed so thoughtlessly and wrapped it around her slim shoulders. She was alone, utterly defenceless, and with frighteningly few resources. Plus, her phone battery was getting low, and she was still without any hint of reception.

Waking her phone, her eyes softened as she studied the image on the lock screen; a handsome, dark-haired man with his arms wrapped around a slender woman. She was half facing the camera, her expression captured as she laughed at a forgotten joke. Tim had taken that photo when they were at the Queensland Performing Arts Centre, seeing _Wicked_. She loved him in that shirt, the clear blue matching his twinkling eyes.

Pressing the lock button to preserve the battery, Elanor shifted in the blanket. A fresh batch of tears welled up and began their fleeting journey across her scratched cheeks, before melting into the fibres of her dress.

The stars were twinkling as the last light faded, taunting her from high above. Somewhere, God only knew where, her family was looking for her; probably terrified, wondering what had happened to her.

And Tim?

He would be waiting at Southbank, checking his phone and scanning the masses of faces.

She had planned to wear her green dress, which clung to her slim waist and dipped low at the back. Tim liked that dress.

But he wouldn't know what had happened; she had never bailed on him before, nor failed to contact him if she was late. She was always available, always willing to give him a lift or go for a coffee or a spontaneous trip to Vapiano's for an indulgent late-night Italian dinner.

Sniffing, Elanor pulled her knees up to her chest. She wanted her parents, or Tim; heck, she would even welcome Georgia at this present moment, despite how angry she had been that morning.

Rolling onto one side, she closed her eyes. The tears continued to leak out from under her lids, as she lay there, full of despair.

 _Goodness, I just want to go home._

* * *

Elanor's first impression when she woke was of damp cold, swiftly followed by gnawing hunger and an intense pressure on her bladder.

Opening one puffy eye, she was met by a damp stalk of grass close to her face. It was coated in dew; as was, she soon discovered, her blanket.

Whimpering involuntarily as she uncurled herself, Elanor discovered a multitude of aches and pains. Whilst she had become accustomed to sleeping on the ground whilst camping, she had always slept upon a pallet of thick blankets and straw. The hard, dry earth pressed uncomfortably on her shoulder and had left her hand almost numb. Both her legs were a mass of knotted muscles from the many kilometres she had stumbled across.

Sitting up, she disentangled herself from the blanket. Fortunately, the moisture had not soaked through to her dress beneath, but her teeth chattered in the chilly air nonetheless.

A thick mist clung to the earth, but as Elanor watched a slight breeze began to stir the wispy tendrils, affording her a better view of her resting place.

The landscape was scarcely any different to the previous day, though she had wandered away from the mountains somewhat. She could make out the distant foothills, and in front of her a shallow gully cut through the earth.

Pushing herself up on her arms, she struggled to a standing position and took a deep breath.

She was in a lot of trouble, that was for sure.

"One thing at a time," she muttered, though taken aback at the sound of her own voice.

And her most immediate concern was her pressing need for a bathroom. The festival had, at least, provided a well-dug pit toilet and paper, but it did not take her foggy brain long to realise that she would not even have that luxury.

Reluctantly, she placed the blanket atop the small backpack, and glanced about her for a suitable spot. The gully appeared the most promising. Sighing, she climbed stiffly down it's side and hoisted her skirts up. Fortunately managing to avoid soiling her clothes - the tip of one boot was not quite so fortunate - Elanor relieved herself before returning to her meagre stockpile.

It was still chilly, so she wrapped the blanket back around her torso like a large and bulky shawl, and surveyed the things from the backpack.

Her phone was lingering at 33%, which filled her stomach with damp dread. Furthermore, she possessed nothing more than a torch, two sets of underwear - for which she was somewhat grateful - and three books which were, in her mind, less than useless. She paused, contemplating whether to discard them, and began to leaf through the first few pages of _The Lord of the Rings_.

An inscription in neat cursive caught her eye:

 _Dearest Georgie,_

 _Happy thirteenth birthday! I thought it was time you stopped pestering the librarian as much, and I bought you your very own. Hoping it_ _'_ _ll keep you out of my hair for at least a few days!_

 _Much love,_

 _Ellie_

She had almost forgotten that the battered trilogy had been a gift that she had given herself over four years ago. Both the Ravenscroft girls had been introduced to Tolkien at an early age, but Elanor had passed beyond its pages without being particularly affected. Georgia, by contrast, had enveloped herself in the world of Middle Earth.

A sense of guilt about losing Georgia's staff and knife nudged Elanor's numb sensibilities, and she shrugged as she replaced the books. There would be hell to pay for the missing weapons, but if Georgia's books were discarded as well, Elanor was not sure she would survive her next encounter with her sister.

Zipping the backpack up, Elanor rose gruellingly. Her heart hung heavy in her chest as she took another treasured peek at Tim's laughing face before powering the phone completely off. Then, with a shuddering breath, she tucked it under her bra, and hobbled forward.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading Chapter 2! I'm so excited to see what you think of the story so far. :) Mary Sue's are a pet peeve of mine, so I'm really trying to keep Elanor from becoming one.**

 **I thought I might ask you all a question to answer for me in the reviews... so...**

 **How would you react if you were transported to Middle Earth?**

 **Please leave reviews, and Chapters 3 and 4 will be up soon!**

 **Love,**

 **Finwe x**


	3. Boromir of Gondor

**Welcome to Chapter 3.**

 **The stage is now set for your envelopment in Middle Earth.**

 **Cue Boromir.**

* * *

The coming of the sun brought little comfort to Boromir, son of Denethor, as he strode wearily through the wild. The passing of the days had ceased to be of consequence, and the miles lay heavily upon his broad shoulders.

It was early October, by his reckoning; some months since his departure from Minas Tirith. The coming of autumn and the dreary emptiness of Dunland and Enedwaith had done little to lift his spirits. Ten days previously, he had attempted a crossing of the River Greyflood, near the ruined city of Tharbad. The desperate venture had cost him his mount - a large, bay gelding of whom he had grown rather fond - and many of his supplies.

Boromir halted, surveying the land. He estimated he was a mere three weeks from reaching Imladris, the home of Elrond. At this his heart was besieged by a meagre surge of hope; for Imladris, he was certain, held the remedy for the dreams that troubled him.

Sighing, he willed himself forward. He had abandoned the North-South Road after the disaster at Tharbad, and pressed forward to the north-east through Cardolan. If nothing further befell him, he would meet the East Road and follow it thence to Imladris.

Smiling grimly, he reached for the comfort of his sword hilt. These were dangerous times, and not even the roads afforded safety for travellers. He was confident in his ability as a warrior, but the incident at the river had darkened the lines etched on his proud face.

The sun drifted slowly through the sky. Near midday, he paused to crouch on a small stone, and devoured a paltry meal. He was a hard man, well accustomed to short rations in his many years defending the borders of his fathers lands, but still the journey north had left him worn and haggard.

Munching slowly on the stale bread, his thoughts drifted to his distant home. He thanked Eru that he had not allowed Faramir to undertake this quest. Denethor's younger son was equal in stature to Boromir, but lacked his fierce courage in battle. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he thought of his brother; Faramir was dear to his heart. He had been but five years old when their mother, Finduilas, had sickened and died, and Boromir was fiercely protective of the younger, dreamier son of the Steward.

At this he stood once more, knowing he must press on. Denethor, wise in lore, had advised him to seek out Elrond in Imladris with all swiftness, and this he would do without fail - for Faramir's sake.

As the afternoon progressed, he spied the South Downs to his left; large, rolling hills that stared at him balefully. Beyond them, he knew, was the East Road, which he sought. His father's knowledge of the western lands was scarce, but his directions to the House of Elrond had not proved ill-founded. Boromir hoped to cut many days off his journey by angling to meet the road further east, though it meant enduring the hardship of uncivilised lands.

After several more hours of travel, the tall warrior's face became clouded in confusion. He had travelled for many leagues without any sign of human presence. And yet, unless he was greatly mistaken, he was now following the ghostly trail of another being.

Determined not to diverge from his path, he continued his purposeful way to the north-east. However, his calculating eyes roved the ground, noting that the person whom he trailed moved on the same path as he did.

Boromir was an able tracker - a necessary skill for the Captain of the White Tower - though without his brother's quick and careful eye. Nonetheless, it became alarmingly evident that he was gaining upon his quarry rapidly. The trail was not difficult to follow, and so he turned his attention to scanning the land in front so as not to stumble upon the person unexpectedly.

The grass through which Boromir walked was long, reaching up to brush the hem of his thigh-length tunic. He trod carefully, but knew that the rustling of the dry stalks would herald his arrival to the one in front, despite his caution.

After half an hour had passed, he stiffened, sensing movement a dozen feet ahead. Pausing, he waited for further evidence of human presence.

He was shortly rewarded.

A wary figure materialised from within the sea of grass and stared at him, stupefied. Taking a tentative step forward, Boromir studied the newcomer.

He realised swiftly that it was a woman, despite her short-cropped golden hair. She had a thin face, delicately formed nose, and wide green-grey eyes that resembled a startled doe's. She was clad in a thin dress of grey-blue material, heavily stained, and a thick brown blanket wrapped about her body.

"Hail, lady," he called, inclining his head slightly. "From whence have you come?"

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. "Who are you?" she managed, at last.

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor," he replied, bowing whilst keeping his gaze locked onto hers. "I would ask again from whence you have come; for these are perilous lands, and no place for a lady to travel alone."

At this her face turned ghostly white. "Did you say Boromir?"

"Indeed, for I am son of the Steward of Gondor."

"Are you from the festival too?" she asked, a tremor in her voice.

"Nay, lady. To which festival are you referring?"

"It was, ah, the medieval festival, near Grafton. Um, north of Coffs Harbour," she added, for clarification. "Are you sure you aren't from there? You're dressed up too."

Boromir frowned; both Grafton and Coffs Harbour were utterly unfamiliar to him. "Your words puzzle me; for we are near no such places as those, nor am I dressed in any peculiar fashion."

The woman's face crumpled. "But we have to be! I've been walking for less than a day, I can't have gone far. And you _have_ to be dressed up! You can't be Boromir! We're in Australia! These are just costumes!" she cried, her voice swelling in a desperate crescendo.

"Lady, please—" Boromir began, but was cut short as she fell to her knees, overcome with grief.

* * *

Elanor's head throbbed. A multitude of ideas screamed through her brain, echoing painfully in the recesses of her being.

 _Boromir… where the hell is Grafton… where are my family… he's got to be lying… Boromir… he can't be from_ Lord of the Rings _! You're going crazy… Elanor, you're losing it… oh my goodness… what is happening… where am I? Oh my gosh… I want to go home… Tim… ugh._

"Forgive me, lady, for any words I have uttered that may have distressed you," came a deep, resonant voice from somewhere above her. Uncurling herself from her foetal position, Elanor met the eyes of the stranger through a film of tears.

"You can't be here," she muttered. "It's physically impossible. _I_ can't be here. I'm crazy. Go away! Please, this is just a dream." She seemed to retreat inside herself again. "It's just a dream, Elanor… It's just a dream…"

She heard the man, Boromir - that had to be some kind of sick joke - entreat her to speak with him again.

"Your name, at least?"

"Elanor Ravenscroft," she whispered, sniffling miserably but remaining upon the ground.

"Will you not rise, and tell me what troubles you?"

"I'm losing my mind, that's what's troubling me!" Elanor groaned, sitting up and looking at him once more. "I'm losing my jolly _mind_."

Boromir frowned at that, and Elanor paused to study him. He certainly was no Sean Bean. His hair was dark brown, cropped to the shoulders, and he had stern grey eyes. However, his face was by no means cruel, though it was serious, and he appeared to be about forty years old.

"I just—" she stopped, throwing her hands open in a desperate shrug. "I'm very, very lost."

He seemed to grasp her meaning better at that, and his expression softened a little.

"I will aid you in whatever way seems best, though my own supplies are meagre and my journey plagued by trials," he informed her. His voice had a peculiar lilt, seeming almost British, but with a more musical quality. "I am travelling north, as you appear to be. What do you seek, Lady Elanor?"

"I'm looking for my family; they were at Grafton with me, but goodness knows where they are now." She pursed her lips slightly. "Where are you going?"

Turning away, Boromir made no reply save to remove an awkward looking pack from his shoulders. He then sat down nearby upon the grass, moving with a lithe grace.

"Are you hungry, Lady Elanor?"

"I'm pretty starving," she admitted, attempting to rub some tears away and sniffing again.

At that, Boromir rummaged within his pack and returned with a small husk of bread, something that appeared to be a strange dried fruit, and a bulging waterskin. "Eat, please," he said, proffering the food.

Ordinarily, Elanor would've turned her nose up at such fare. But it had been far too long since her last meal, and she was desperately hungry. She grasped at the food wolfishly and devoured it in moments, glancing shyly over at Boromir once it was gone in the hope he would offer more. This was not to be. After taking a generous drink from the waterskin, she returned it to him with a soft thanks.

"How many days since you became lost, Lady Elanor?" he inquired, returning the waterskin to his pack.

"Um, yesterday morning, I think," she said, slowly. "Also, why do you keep calling me Lady Elanor?"

Boromir studied her shrewdly before replying. "Your dress is of fine make, and you are adorned with precious gems. I know not the land from which you hail, for you are not of Gondor or Rohan, unless I am mistaken, and you do not look as one who has endured physical hardship or toiled for her existence. I assume, therefore, that you are of a noble house - forgive me if I have assumed wrongly."

"Fine gems—?" Elanor began, curiously.

Boromir glanced meaningfully at her left hand, and then to her wrist and ears. Elanor's eyes followed his. She had a simple silver ring upon her third finger; two interweaving bands that were studded with laboratory-grown diamonds. She also had a delicate silver watch on her left arm (a present from her father), and a pair of pearls in her ears. The jewellery was by no means cheap or tacky, but could hardly be called "precious".

"Oh."

Boromir continued to watch her, but when she gave no reply, he glanced away. His face was pensive as he studied the grass before him.

"Where did you say you were going, again?" asked Elanor, tentatively.

"I did not speak of it," he said, without looking up.

"Oh."

There was a pause, and then he seemed to sigh before speaking again. "My errand is not one that I wish to proclaim for all Arda to hear, but I see no malice in your countenance; I am bound for Imladris, the House of Elrond."

"Elrond?" Elanor spluttered, her eyes widening.

 _This had to be a joke. He was just a_ really _convincing cosplayer - or she was completely crazy._

 _Or both._

 _Shut-up brain!_ her other internal voice hissed.

"Lord Elrond, a noble Elf-lord. Imladris is his home, a place of wisdom and healing." Boromir hesitated again. "He would surely welcome a lost traveller into his halls."

Elanor covered her face with her hands.

 _Rivendell. He's going to Rivendell_ , she thought, recognising the alternative name for the Elven house. _Oh my goodness. He's actually going to Rivendell. You're crazy, Elanor. You're crazier-than-a-coconut crazy._

"Lady Elanor?"

She snapped out of her internal dialogue abruptly. "Yeah?"

"If you wish it, you may accompany me hence; I have few supplies, but I cannot see a lady remain in the wild, defenceless and alone."

Elanor stared at him, dumbstruck. "What, you mean… you mean go, to Imladris? With you? _Go to the Elves_?"

He was silent.

"You're crazy!" she cried. "Or I'm crazy, or we're both crazy! These are costumes!" She plucked at the fabric of her skirt feverishly. "This is all just a joke - a big, stupid, tasteless joke! Tell me where Georgia is and why the _hell_ she thought this would be funny!"

Boromir's expression became stricken as he watched her shout and cry.

" _This cannot be happening!_ "

And with that, Elanor crumpled into tears for the second time.

* * *

 **I apologise for the brevity (or lack thereof) of the first three chapters. I can assure you that Chapter 4 is longer than it's predecessors and allows for a more substantial glimpse at the Middle Earth aspect of my story.**

 **I do hope you are all enjoying it so far! I am having a great deal of pleasure in the writing.**

 **Please leave a review if you have time!**


	4. Bring her to Lord Elrond

**"The board is set, and the pieces are moving."**

 **Chapter 4 welcomes you; she grows stronger than her sisters before her, but she is still rather vain-she hopes very much that you will receive a favourable impression of her!**

* * *

The following morning, Boromir woke after a restless and interrupted sleep. He sat up, carefully unfolding himself from his heavy, fur-lined cloak. Blinking several times, he looked over at the figure of the woman, lying several feet away.

She had willingly accepted the additional blanket that he carried, and now appeared to be shrouded in a dense mass of coarse, brown wool. Only her head emerged, her short golden hair splayed wildly as she slept.

Rising, Boromir moved stealthily away from the cold campsite to relieve himself, frowning all the while.

Lady Elanor puzzled him.

Foremost in his mind was his concern for her well-being; the pathetic woman appeared utterly mad at times, though at others her eyes were clear, lucid, and full of sorrow and confusion. She spoke of lands that he knew not, though he did not discount this entirely; he knew very little of the geography west of the Misty Mountains, or to the north. It had been many years since the kingdom of Arnor had been abandoned, and Boromir had never walked it's rugged terrain.

However, swiftly following his bewilderment about this strange noblewoman was the unavoidable question of what to do with her. He could not, in good conscience, send her to a nearby settlement, for he knew of none. His travels had been lonely, and he was again struck with his ignorance of Eriador and Arnor.

No, she must travel with him.

This led to the pressing question of how the two of them would manage to survive on his limited rations, especially as Lady Elanor would undoubtedly be a hinderance. It was without question that he must take her to Imladris, but his impatience to fulfil his promise to his brother made the prospect distasteful.

Having completed his ablutions in private—and with the matter still unresolved in his mind—Boromir returned to his pack.

Elanor was just beginning to stir as he strode back into sight. He watched as she uncurled herself stiffly and rubbed her puffy eyes. She had been weeping, he realised, and slept poorly if the dark circles on her cheeks were any indication.

"Good morning, Lady Elanor," he said, somewhat stiffly, kneeling near his belongings.

"Hey," she croaked, looking about hopelessly.

Her mournful expression was hard to disregard, and Boromir watched her as she stood.

She was tall for a woman, he realised, though still several inches under six feet. Her figure was slim, without being rakish, and she had straight shoulders and a proud tilt to her chin. She would perhaps have been fair, had she been less woefully miserable, and brought to mind the women of Rohan; golden of hair and skin, with eyes of green and blue.

Elanor smiled shakily at him as she stretched.

"Did you sleep okay?"

"Okay?" he responded, brow furrowed as he tasted the peculiar word on his tongue.

"I mean, did you sleep well? Was it a good sleep?" Elanor amended, her face falling a little.

"Oh, indeed," he lied smilingly. "Though the Wild is not where one may expect to rest easiest."

That made her laugh bitterly. "No, not really."

She brushed her hands on her skirt, and looked about.

"We must eat before we set out, though if you wish to walk a little first, I shall save you some fare," he said, hoping to convey his meaning whilst tactfully looking down at the pack.

Boromir saw her flush a little out of the corner of her eye, and nod.

"I'll be quick."

* * *

Elanor hurried away from where Boromir knelt, arms folded protectively across her body to ward off the morning chill. She had slept somewhat better than the night before, her mind so weary that she had dropped off quickly. However, the hard ground was beginning to take it's toll, and her back and neck ached painfully.

"What I wouldn't give for a packet of Panadol, a shower, and a real bed," she muttered, glancing over her shoulder to check Boromir was out of sight.

 _What I wouldn't give to get out of this crazy, horrible dream…_

Her stomach knotted at the thought; as little as she tried to think about it, the terror of her present situation lingered like a heavy blanket.

 _Oh, but I just want to go home!_

Attempting to forget that her family probably thought she'd been abducted, raped and murdered, Elanor began the repugnant task of going to the bathroom behind a stunted bush. The chill air sent goosebumps up and down her bare legs, and she fought back tears as she stood up and prepared to return to her improbably rescuer - a fictional character from a book she didn't even enjoy that much.

 _This cannot get any worse._

* * *

Elanor swiftly found that things could, in fact, grow worse.

The day began to blur into a hopeless montage of sore feet, aching legs, and mental exhaustion. Several times she had to blink back tears as she stared at Boromir's broad back, moving with swift purposefulness to the north-east.

She had only realised quite how tall he was as they began their relentless trek across this godforsaken land, "Middle Earth". Elanor guessed he stood at almost two metres, towering above her. Adding to this was the fact that he was built like an Olympic swimmer, with wide shoulders, slim hips, and arms and legs that looked whipcord lean and immensely strong. His stride was effortless and she found herself pattering along in his wake, aching for a respite.

Boromir glanced over his shoulder occasionally, evidently to check that she was keeping up. Each time, Elanor gritted her teeth to prevent herself from begging for a rest. She was starving, filthy, and drowning in hopelessness.

After what felt like forever, Boromir slowed until he fell back beside her.

"We will break for half an hour now, to eat and rest."

"Thank goodness," she muttered, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. She was beginning to sweat from her exertions, but kept the blanket wrapped about her as a chilling wind clawed at her thin dress.

Lunch was, unsurprisingly, bread and dried fruit.

Elanor tried to eat slowly, savouring the food despite her hunger. It had not taken her long to realise that Boromir was short on rations, and that her presence probably meant he would run out of food before arriving in Rivendell. As consumed as she was by an overwhelming sense of self-pity, she couldn't prevent a pang of remorse that she should be such a nuisance to him.

Boromir ate more quickly, before striding off towards a low hill without a word.

Despite being largely indifferent to _Lord of the Rings_ , Elanor could not help a flicker of interest as she watched him walk away. She'd read the book only once, as an early teen, and then seen the movies a handful of times. This Boromir was markedly different from Peter Jackson's version. He was far too other-worldly. His face was chiselled and noble, more like some of the drawings that she'd seen on Georgia's wall.

And then she was struck by the realisation that, at the end of this book, Boromir would die.

 _You're really losing it. This is some joke, or some crazy hallucination! Book characters_ don't exist _. Georgia's pulling your leg! Boromir isn't real! Get it together, Elanor!_

In spite of her mental protestations, she couldn't quite shake a feeling of wrongness that the man should be killed. He was stern, and proud, and rather awe-inspiring, but he certainly wasn't unlikeable. Movie-Boromir had always seemed like a bit of a dick, thinking only of himself and being completely consumed by the Ring. But this guy seemed… normal.

 _Elanor, you're tripping. Completely, off your head, tripping._

At the very least, he had given her food, and was trying to get her to Rivendell. Gandalf was in Rivendell, and she had a faint conviction that perhaps he'd be able to figure out what had happened.

 _Man, I hope I make it._

* * *

When Boromir returned, Lady Elanor had finished eating and was watching for him expectantly. He smiled slightly, seeing that she looked rather downcast again.

"We had best continue," he said, slowly. He was somewhat unsure how to command this woman. He had regularly given orders, but always to men and comrades-in-arms. Neither of Denethor's sons had taken a wife; both were consumed by duty, and Boromir had only ever interacted with noblewomen in the light-hearted and civil atmosphere of celebrations and feasts. Furthermore, this Lady Elanor appeared to behave in a fashion far different from the women of Gondor and its lands. At his words, however, she merely nodded.

"I suppose so."

He waited while she rose, brushing off her skirt mechanically. As soon as she had placed the peculiar black bag upon her back, Boromir turned towards the north-east and began to walk.

Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed before he heard her call to him in her peculiar accent.

"Your pardon, lady?" he replied, as he faced her.

She flushed a little, caught between exhaustion and embarrassment.

"I just wanted to ask… how long till we get to Rivendell?"

A small smile playing at his lips, Boromir replied: "I had hoped to reach Imladris within three weeks."

He watched as her countenance swiftly melted to despair.

"So far?" she cried, her voice thin.

"I would not tell you an untruth, Lady Elanor."

She covered her face with her hands and swayed slightly on her feet. Observing her girlish face, Boromir was confronted with just how young Elanor was.

 _She is but recently come to womanhood_. _Less than half my years at most; my own child she could be!_

Pity evident in every line of his body, he reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

Elanor peered out from between two dirt-stained fingers, her grey-green eyes swimming in tears as he took her in his arms. Half a moment later, she had buried her face in his chest, sobbing into his richly embroidered tunic. He held her gently as her shoulders shook.

"You are troubled," was all he said.

She gave a sad little laugh as she stepped back and met his gaze. "Yes, Boromir, I am troubled. But we must get to Rivendell, I suppose. Gandalf will be there, and he can help us."

"Gandalf?" Boromir replied, his expression lightening. "Great tidings are these, though puzzling; how came you to know his whereabouts?"

Elanor's eyes widened in alarm, and she hesitated before she spoke. "I heard it from my sister," she said finally, looking down at her sleeve and plucking off a piece of grass. "He will know what to do, for both of us I guess."

Nodding slowly, Boromir straightened his heavy cloak. He was disconcerted by Elanor's unexpected prophecy, but could not bring himself to be suspicious of her. Hoping that she would manage to exert her willpower and endure the following days, he turned north-east once more. He vowed inwardly to watch her more shrewdly. If she were to collapse entirely, she would only hinder him further.

 _To Imladris;_ he thought, sighing, _and by Eru's name I hope there lie the answers for this girl, as well as myself._

* * *

 ** _October 24th, 3018 (Third Age)_**

Even as autumn waxed in the north, the Valley of Imladris remained quiet and tranquil. The grass was richly green, and the trees only grew in loveliness as their leaves faded to burnished gold.

The Last Homely House, home of Elrond Peredhel, seemed to whisper words of welcome as you approached the threshold. A stone courtyard, surrounded by trees and flowers, swept to the front entranceway, urging you up the stairs and gathering you lovingly inside.

The house itself was as graceful as only the Elves could make it, with sweeping lines and intricate carvings. It rambled upwards and outwards, with wide, pleasant terraces and lofty ceilings. On its eastern side roared the River Bruinen, tumbling exuberantly over craggy rocks.

Gandalf the Grey stared listlessly at the magnificent trees that grew just beyond the terrace on which he stood. His face was lined and pensive, whilst his thoughts wandered far from his present position.

"You are grieved, meldonya, and I will not urge you to be glad; for I know you treasured the halfling above many."

Gandalf sighed heavily and closed his eyes as a tall, stately figure approached his right hand.

"I failed him, Elrond. He trusted me, and perished at my hand," came a somewhat choked reply.

"Do not blame yourself; Frodo accepted the quest freely. None foresaw his fate, not even I."

Gandalf turned to study his companion. "Indeed?"

Elrond shook his head and frowned. "No, and it troubles me. My sight became clouded ere the beginning of October, though I had no difficulty perceiving the halflings in months past."

"Peculiar," whispered the wizard, returning to his mindless study of the gardens.

Silence fell for a time, before Elrond spoke again.

"How fares Frodo's uncle, Bilbo?"

"Ill, I am afraid," Gandalf replied. "He weeps constantly, and even the other hobbits, Samwise and Meriadoc and Peregrin, mourn him deeply." He ran his fingers down his jawline and turned to Elrond. "Aragorn is roused and suspicious; he senses something amiss, for though he feared for Frodo's life, still he had hope until yesterday. And contrary to all reason, I find myself seeking for an answer to this disruption, as if it were not meant to be."

Elrond, following his friend's gaze beyond the terrace, nodded slowly. "Do not question your reason; for such thoughts are also in my mind." He turned to Gandalf, his countenance grave. "But it shall not be long until we discover, for I sense the approach of answers."

* * *

Erestor strode across the courtyard uneasily. A shadow rested upon his thoughts, and traced lines upon his high, proud brow. His hands were clasped behind his back as he walked, and he frowned at the ground close to his feet.

The council of that morning had left him distinctly unsettled. Mithrandír and Lord Elrond had consulted with one another at great length, before drifting away without conclusion. Erestor had full faith in the formidable pair, wizard and elf, but their noncommittal responses flummoxed him.

Adding to this was Erestor's own sense of foreboding, which drew him beneath the trees and towards the narrow stone bridge which spanned the River Bruinen, to watch and to wait.

He had discerned the approach of a mortal - _two mortals_ , he amended - as they had crossed the Ford of Bruinen and moved with painstaking slowness towards the valley's entrance. Lord Elrond could hardly have failed to notice their advance, but Erestor desired to seek out these strange guests first. Frowning, he positioned himself beside the bridge, like a sentinel guarding the path to his master's house.

Rare indeed was the day that Lord Elrond, rich in both knowledge and wisdom, did not have an answer to a puzzle. In all his living memory, time incomprehensible for the race of men, Erestor had never met his lord's gaze and seen fear - until today. And that, more than anything, filled his heart with dread.

As he watched, a tall man emerged from the trees across the river. He walked as one who had endured unimaginable hardship, and in his arms he carried the lifeless form of a woman. The elf-lord was touched with pity, and his stance relaxed somewhat as the pair approached the bridge.

The man trod carefully across, weary feet stumbling a little but still finding their place on the narrow stone walkway. As he reached the far side, he glanced up and appeared to see Erestor for the first time. His eyes were full of soundless pleas, but no word did he speak as he stood there with the woman in his arms.

Erestor paused, studying the desolate pair. Finally, he gave a curt nod.

"Bring her to Lord Elrond."

* * *

 **I do apologise for such a segmented chapter; I seemed to have trouble pushing through with long pieces of writing today!**

 **Chapter 5 promises to be far more fluid though.**

 **Again, give us a favourite/follow/review if you enjoyed reading this!**


	5. Reflections

**Chapter 5 - Reflections**

 **(Also, if you're an anonymous hater: please don't just come to make ridiculous criticisms about my work. I want constructive feedback; not spam from people without accounts who just want to tell me "this sucks" and "your writing is terrible" and "your OC is such a Mary Sue". I'll just keep deleting them.)**

* * *

It felt to Elanor as if she left sleep slowly, floating upwards like she were swimming in a pool. After what seemed like an age, her eyes responded to her brain's demands and fluttered open.

She was lying on her back, and immediately became entranced by the ceiling above her head. It was high and made of a light-coloured wood, with graceful beams and carvings that caught her eye and drew it in a mad dance from corner to corner.

Dappled sunlight fell across her face, and she reluctantly abandoned the ceiling for the window to her left. French doors led out to a terrace, and through the frosted panes she thought she could make out golden trees and a high waterfall.

She frowned slightly.

 _The trees shouldn't be going brown yet…_

This realisation, sadly, was the conclusion of Elanor's peaceful reverie; her stomach heaved as she sat bolt upright - and came face to face with a bearded, grey-haired old man.

"Who are—?" she squeaked, and then stopped in amazement as if the peculiar voice could not possibly belong to her.

"I believe that I might ask the same question of you," the old man replied. His voice was deep and musical, and she could not help thinking that he would sound wonderful reciting Shakespeare.

But, "Elanor," was all she said, not wanting to appear impolite.

"Well, Miss Elanor, you have caused quite a stir in the House of Elrond."

With that, a multitude of unwanted memories poured into her head.

"Oh my word," she groaned, falling back to the pillows dramatically. "I thought this was a dream, a joke! Far out, this is a nightmare."

"This cannot be, lady, for as sure as I am here you sleep no longer," came the slow reply, in the same tone as before. The man spoke gently, but without any particular emotion.

Sitting up once more, Elanor rolled her eyes and plucked angrily at a strand of hair. "Well if this is the _stupid_ house of Elrond and I'm _actually_ here then you must be—" she paused abruptly, and gaped for a second before finishing in a timid voice: "—Gandalf?"

"Quite right, young lady!" that gentleman replied, with a small smile that crinkled around his piercing blue eyes. "Now, provided that your knowledge is more extensive than your vocabulary, I have several things that I would ask you."

Flushing slightly at the veiled insult, Elanor stuck her chin out in a weak show of defiance. "Doesn't mean I'll answer."

"Oh, you will," Gandalf smiled again. Leaning a little closer, he fixed her with his sword-sharp eyes. "You are not as guileless as you appear, Miss Elanor. Boromir son of Denethor gives a curious account of his discovery of you, deep in the wilds of Eriador, alone and without supplies. You carry strange trinkets, and utter words that would seem without sense save for the storm growing in my mind." Pausing for effect, he continued slowly. "All is not well in Middle Earth, and you arrive as one riding on the crest of the wave."

Elanor stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or simply bury her head in the ample pillows and hope the whole situation would go away.

Before she could make her decision, however, she suddenly realised she was very tired.

Blinking stupidly, she lifted one hand halfheartedly and then let it drop to the coverlet. Her voice lowered to a whisper: "I just don't know."

* * *

Gandalf struggled to maintain his mask of impassivity as he studied the woman sitting on the bed before him.

By the standards of most races she was still a girl, twenty years at most. She had tousled golden curls, and the shadows around her deep-set eyes were accentuated by her ghostly cheeks. If the son of Denethor's account were true, she had travelled long and swift over the last three weeks.

She was exhausted.

Brushing through a heartfelt desire to leave her to rest, Gandalf continued.

"Miss Elanor," he urged her, gently. "I would not press you if I did not feel it were absolutely necessary."

Elanor hesitated, and then nodded sharply. "Alright," she said.

Leaning forward, Gandalf clasped his hands together. "Events move apace, and your host believes that your presence here is in some way connected to the failure of our endeavours."

She frowned as she rubbed one eye. "My host? Oh, wait, Elrond, yes. And your endeavours? Like, the Fellowship? Frodo taking the Ring to Mordor?"

"Where have you come by this information?" he barked sharply, eyes widening.

Elanor appeared taken aback at his outburst, before a look of horror dawned on her face and she covered it with her hands.

"Oh, _wow_ , I should not have said that… oh my goodness… Ugh! I can't believe—oh _gosh_!"

She continued muttering for a time, clawing desperately at her face and hair. Finally, her liquid eyes peered over her fingers.

"I guess I'd better explain."

Smiling wryly, Gandalf replied: "That would perhaps be best."

"Where to begin," she half-moaned, drawing her knees to her chest. "Well, a month ago, I was with my family. We were camping, at some medieval festival thing - just pretending we were from the middle ages and dressing up. Archery, jousting, that kind of thing. And then just before we left, Georgia - that's my younger sister - disappeared." She stared at her knees. "I went looking for her, just over the next hill. And when I headed back in the direction of the campgrounds, I couldn't find it—the campgrounds, I mean."

Gandalf attempted to conceal a smile. "Is it utterly impossible that you might have become lo—?"

" _No,_ " came the emphatic response, with force that surprised him from one so frail. "I know this is going to seem completely nuts, but I'm not from Middle Earth at all." She looked at him once more, seeming to expect some kind of perceptible reaction.

"Where, then, are you from, Miss Elanor?" he asked mildly, stemming a torrent of questions.

"Well… Earth. We just call it Earth, I mean. It's just a normal planet, with land and water, and lots of people. Like here, but we're, more… technologically advanced. I'd say we're probably 800 years ahead, with technology." She flung her arms out in sudden exasperation. "I don't get it! I just don't get it. It was stinking hot at home, the middle of summer, and suddenly I'm here and it's autumn. And," she continued without pause, "it's not even supposed to _be_ autumn in October; not in Australia! In Australia, our summer is over Christmas! So the seasons are back the front, and I've time-travelled _and_ managed to end up in this crazy place - and it's all a darn book! _This place_ , this Rivendell, _is in a book!_ Do you understand that?!"

Here she seemed to run out of words, for which Gandalf was quite relieved. He had half a mind to pronounce her mad, but her eyes were lucid and clear. Her closing words troubled him most of all, for she spoke them with deep conviction.

 _Even were it untrue,_ he mused, _the woman believes it wholeheartedly herself._

"And how do you propose this to be possible?" he asked instead.

Elanor seemed to deflate again. "I told you, _I don't know_." When she met his intent stare again, she was in tears and her voice quavered. "Trust me, if I could—" sob "—imagine this all away I would. Georgia was the one who—" sob "—would have loved an adventure like this; getting into her—" sob "—favourite story of all time. Because all of this—" she gestured wildly with her arms and took a deep breath to calm herself "—is part of a book written by a guy called Tolkien. It tells about how Bilbo finds the Ring, and gives it to Frodo at his birthday party. And then Frodo comes here, with some of his friends, where they have a meeting and decide who to send to Mordor to destroy it—the Ring, I mean. The rest of the book tells about the rest of the Fellowship—Legolas, and Aragorn and the others—and what happens to them, and to you. It's probably one of the most famous fantasy books in the entire world—Earth, I mean."

"So you mean to say that I, Gandalf the Grey, am part of a legend in your world?" he queried, unable to quench his curiosity.

"Yeah, basically."

"And you have knowledge of how this quest—this quest to destroy the Ring and vanquish the Dark Lord—will unfold?"

Elanor shrugged. "Yeah, along with most of the world."

"Then perhaps your coming is not an ill omen, as we first believed," he mused thoughtfully.

"An ill omen? How'd you know I was coming?"

Gandalf allowed his features to soften. "Yes, we were aware, even before you triggered the deep magic embedded about the valley."

She looked somewhat upset at this. "Why would I be an ill omen, though?"

"Because," he replied, believing the knowledge could do her no harm, "many things that were unforeseen have come to light. The Ring did very nearly not reach Rivendell—" his voice was suddenly heavy as he rose from his chair "—and the Ringbearer did not."

"Wait, _what_?"

Startled, Gandalf glanced at her. Elanor's face was no longer sorrowful, but twisted in dread.

"Frodo's _dead_?"

"Would it were a jest, fair lady," he replied, sadly. "This is news to you, then, despite the book you speak of?"

She seemed to struggle for words for a moment.

"Gandalf," she whispered, imploringly. "In the book _—he's not supposed to be dead_."

Gandalf looked at her searchingly for a moment, before nodding to himself and moving quietly to the door.

"I have much to think on, and you must rest, for you have need of it," he rumbled, turning and smiling at her kindly. "Lord Elrond had intended to speak to those whom have gathered in Imladris yestermorn, but your coming has amended that. He wishes you to do what you will with the hours of light that remain, and tomorrow—that is, the 27th of October—you shall attend the Council."

* * *

Before Elanor could articulate the multitude of questions hovering on her tongue, he had gone in a swirl of his grey robes.

Flopping back onto the pillows in exasperation, she sighed.

 _Good lord, but I'm tired._

Her emotions felt like balls of wool, hopelessly tangled amongst themselves. If she were dealing with literal wool, she would simply have tossed it all away to save herself the effort of isolating the strands. As it were, the metaphorical quagmire was far more difficult to tackle.

Her chest ached for home, as it had ever since she had arrived. She had been here for over three weeks, if Boromir's reckonings were correct, and the days did not lessen the pain.

 _Three weeks._

She closed her eyes miserably.

A lot could happen in three weeks. Would her family have given up searching for her, assuming her dead—or worse? It had been mid-January when she had slipped away from them. Georgia would be starting her final year of school by now, and her parents would probably be driving to Noosa for their annual romantic getaway. She could see Tim's lively face as he worked behind the Myer counter, paying his way through university. Every evening he would wander down towards the river, whistling an unknown melody. He had always loved summer…

 _If only this world works the same as Narnia, and no time passes there,_ Elanor thought, lips curling in a derisive smirk as she attempted to quell a rush of homesickness.

Breathing deep, she focused on the leafy carving above her head. She could not dispel the dull throb, but she could avoid the agony which pierced her whenever she lingered too long in memory lane. For now, at least, she was comfortable.

And clean.

She had not observed her state of dress until that point, and swiftly realised she was in a satiny cream nightgown. It was luxuriously soft, and for a moment all she could do was revel in abandoning the abhorred medieval costume and thick dirt which had coated her.

 _The Elves sure know how to make nice clothes_!

Working to distract herself, she observed the rest of her chamber. It was vaulted and elegant, with panelled walls in the same oak-coloured wood as the ceiling. A delicately painted screen concealed one corner and a wardrobe stood along another wall. There was little else to the furnishings, but the very thought of sleeping indoors brought her a kind of visceral delight.

Feeling vaguely curious about the whereabouts of her backpack, she decided to venture beyond the bed. Peeling back the bedding, she swung her feet over the side.

One glance at her legs maid her recoil in dismay.

Elanor had always had a slim figure, and had worked hard in recent years to achieve the societally-acclaimed balance between curvaceous and "toned" that Georgia managed so effortlessly.

Now, her toils had wasted away. Her legs were no longer shapely, but resembled knobbly twigs beneath her nightgown. Her body fat had melted with the rigour of the last three weeks, taking with it much of her muscle mass. What was left was lean, sinewy tendons clinging to emaciated legs.

Frankly, it did not appeal to her much.

Lifting one arm, she realised that her whole body had suffered. Her elbow joints looked over-large, and her wrists like a child's. She decided she would spare herself the sight of her torso and shook the sleeve of her nightgown back over her arm.

 _At least you can eat as much dessert as you like for the next month._

One corner of her lip twitched at her internal critic's wisecrack.

Deciding that the appearance of her starved body was not her greatest concern, Elanor stood gingerly and shuffled away from the bed. Resolving to get back into some kind of strength training once she'd recovered, she set out in search of her backpack.

Fortunately she did not have to travel far; the travel-worn bag was at the foot of her bed. Her legs were quivering by she retrieved it and sank to the safety of the mattress.

Undoing the zip, she emptied the contents onto the blanket beside her.

Out tumbled the small torch, fresh underwear, her phone, and three ill-used books.

Disregarding the other items for a moment, Elanor grasped her phone feverishly and powered it on. The sight of Tim's face on the lock screen made her stomach clench with loneliness, so she put it aside. Time for missing her boyfriend later.

The torch, whilst an amusing trinket, was of little use. It would go flat fairly quickly and just cause awkward questions. Gandalf knew about her origins, and she assumed Boromir would've guessed something was amiss, but Elanor had no desire to bandy about that she was from another universe. She tucked it into an unobtrusive pocket, vowing to drop it into a giant hole at the next opportunity.

The underwear was an easy decision—she had no idea of knowing how Middle Earth underclothes would compare to Bonds, but she wasn't sure she wanted to find out. They would stay.

And then…

 _The books._

Frowning, she picked them up. All three were fairly new editions, the two Tolkien novels with black cardboard covers and peculiar, flower-like designs emblazoned on the front. They would never be conspicuous…

…and yet at the same time she found herself unable to throw them away.

If she didn't take them with her, they would have to be destroyed. If they were found, all hell would break loose. On the other hand, Georgia would be extremely riled to hear that Elanor had burned her three most prized novels.

 _If you ever see Georgia or your home again._

"Oh, shutup!" she snapped, angry at herself for letting her thoughts stray in that direction. Sighing huffily, she stowed the spare underwear in a small compartment of the backpack, and tossed the books back in. She couldn't part with them, at least not now.

 _And who knows how useful they will be_ , she thought, realising that her knowledge of Middle Earth was limited. It had been years since she had read the books, and half-heartedly watching the movies didn't exactly count.

Dropping the backpack onto the ground beside her, Elanor clambered back beneath the comfort of the sheets. She was horrified by how easily tired she was, and how delightful it was simply to lie back on the pillows and imagine she was in a hotel at the beach…

But no, she mustn't. She had to think about what was happening here, and how she was supposed to survive being trapped in a fantasy novel.

 _I'll ask Gandalf about getting back next time I see him_ , she vowed.

Until then, she could do nothing except rest and wait for the Council tomorrow. She knew perfectly well what would happen; Elrond would speak about the Ring, and the Elves and Dwarves would bicker fiercely. Then Frodo would offer to take the Ring to Mordor, and Aragorn would pledge himself to him, and Legolas would—

 _Except now Frodo's dead._

The revelation settled upon her like a heavy blanket.

 _Far out, how did that happen? He makes it in the movies! He gets stabbed by the Black Riders, but he's ok, right? Or did I miss something? No… he definitely makes it… Then how…?_

Comprehension hit her with all the force of a cricket bat.

 _An "ill omen"… that's what Gandalf said I was… which means_ _that they all thought he would make it… and somehow me… coming… meant that he died instead… like some weird disturbance in the universe or… something… that it's my fault…_

Elanor sat up, her face distorted in revulsion.

"I pretty much killed Frodo Baggins."

* * *

 **Thankyou to everyone who left helpful reviews on my work! As I mentioned above; anonymous haters will simply have their posts deleted. I may not be the best writer in the world, but I am _not_ a horrible one. I would love it if people could help me improve by giving tips and constructive criticisms, but "this sucks" is hardly constructive or fair.**

 **I do hope those of you who have been reading this for enjoyment or to give proper feedback are enjoying it thus far! I am tweaking plot devices as we progress, and am pleased to be able to upload Chapter 5 for all of you. Chapter 6 should follow without too much delay.**

 **Finwe x**


	6. Wake

**Chapter 6 - Wake**

* * *

The following morning did little to lift Elanor's spirits after her sickening revelation.

She had slept fitfully all of the previous afternoon, plagued by the knowledge that somehow she had managed to change the story with her appearance in Middle Earth. Fretting, restless and beginning to grow hungry, she was profoundly relieved when an elegant figure had tapped on the door, laden with a tray of food.

Elanor's first encounter with an Elf was somewhat bewildering. The woman, who called herself Indilwen, was not as lofty and serious as she had always imagined an Elf would be. She was only an inch or two taller than herself, with luxuriant dark brown hair, smooth skin, and delicately pointed ears. Whilst Elanor marvelled at her grace and the litheness of her form, Indilwen was not as inhuman and mystical as she had come to expect. Beautiful, certainly, but not altogether dissimilar from herself. Her cheekbones were fine, her jawline elegant, and she looked like she would never need makeup in her life, but she had a warm smile and a playful glint in her grey eyes.

Indilwen smoothed the coverlet and gently placed the tray of food upon Elanor's knees.

"Eat," she had said, in a voice that seemed to be both wise and joyous all at once. With that, she swept out with a last twinkling smile.

After realising that the Elf would not return until later, Elanor had done as she was bidden. She had been given a simple meal of bread and soup, but relished their warmth and freshness. The soup was thick and pleasantly flavoured, whilst the bread was crusty on the outside and soft within.

Then, despite her resolution to wait to see Indilwen again, she had fallen peacefully asleep.

* * *

With a full stomach and weary mind, her dreams were mercifully free of Frodo Baggins until the morning sun rose. She awoke with a sickening jolt from a particularly vivid picture of driving a small dagger into Elijah Wood's chest.

Breathing fast, she attempted to still her queasy stomach.

 _This is all my fault… oh gosh, I wish this had never happened… oh gosh—_

Distraction appeared to be the best remedy. Climbing gingerly out of bed, Elanor stretched. Every part of her ached; 2 days in bed after 3 weeks of walking had caused her muscles to seize up in protest.

Feeling slightly less shaky than the previous day, she decided to explore the corners of her room. She had a sneaking suspicion that the beautiful screen in one corner concealed some kind of washstand. Shuffling over slowly, she smiled as she peered behind it.

The actuality was significantly better than her meagre hopes. Instead, there sat an ample bathtub made of some kind of light, marbled stone, and a toilet which was far less primitive than she'd expected. Like the rest of the room, it was extremely elegant. The bath had a hole at the bottom for drainage, but no taps. On the wall nearby was a lever, which Elanor soon recognised as a pump. Beneath this was a large pot resting on a small stove. The pot was rather like the huge, stainless steel vessels Elanor had used for cooking pasta when she'd worked in an industrial kitchen one summer. It's lid was beginning to rattle, and she realised Indilwen must have crept in while she slept to light the stove for her bath.

Intending to thank the Elf-woman later, she hurried over and cautiously touched the handles of the pot. They were quite cool. The bulk of its weight, however, was far too much for her to manage, even had she possessed her normal strength.

 _I'll have to carry it to the bath in smaller amounts,_ she thought, eyes roving about. Finally, she spied a regular-sized silver bucket and carried it back to the stove. Dipping it carefully inside, she transferred half a dozen buckets into the bath.

At the sound of pouring water, Elanor could ignore the call of nature no longer. Leaving the scalding water to cool, she turned to the toilet.

It appeared to have some kind of plumbing, but Elanor did not spare that much thought as she hefted up her nightgown. Instead of a toilet roll, someone had left a pile of folded paper towels in a tiny tray attached to the wall.

A thought struck her as she realised how many weeks she had been away from home: _What do the Elf women do at that time of the month?_

She had not considered this dilemma whilst travelling with Boromir. It struck her now that Middle Earth's feminine products were probably primitive at best. She hadn't taken any supplies to the medieval festival, and counting the days of her cycle had not been her foremost concern while staggering through the wild. Now, however, she was reminded distinctly of the time she'd gone skinny dipping with some other girls on school camp. One of them had decided it would be highly amusing to steal prudish Ellie's clothes so she had to sneak back to camp in nothing but a diminutive towel. She'd been ill-equipped—and mortified.

Attempting to block that memory out, Elanor pulled her nightgown over her head. She would have to ask someone—a female, preferably—about where she could get her hands on supplies.

Standing naked behind the screen, she trailed her fingers through the hot bathwater. It was the perfect temperature, so she climbed over the side of the tub and sank into it with utmost relief.

Pushing thoughts about the female biology aside, she shuffled down until everything but her head was immersed in the steamy bathwater. She preferred not to look at her own thinness; every rib and vertebrae stood out, and her hips were like sharp interruptions along her sides.

But, she was clean.

Sitting on the side of the tub were a collection of fragrant soaps. After soaking luxuriously for a time, Elanor rubbed herself clean. She blushed, knowing that one of the Elves had washed her when she arrived unconscious. It was immensely satisfying—and less awkward—to do it herself.

At length, she stood up. Water ran down her lean body in rivulets as she squeezed it out of her hair. Reaching for a conveniently placed towel, Elanor wrapped herself in it and stepped back onto the tiles.

"Clothes," she murmured, a wry expression on her face as she surveyed the nightgown. She had no desire to wander Rivendell in nothing but those strange pyjamas.

She peeped around the screen to check Gandalf or Indilwen hadn't returned, and then scampered for the wardrobe standing nearby. Pulling it open, she was disappointed to discover it was mostly empty. However, there was one dress—a simple yet pleasant gown of grey—along with several long tunic shirts, tights, and undergarments. Scorning the underwear—which resembled soft-woven cotton bikepants—Elanor grabbed the dress and half ran back to the safety of the screen. She made a second dash for her backpack for a pair of modern underwear and a bra and began to dress.

The silvery garment fit fairly well, despite her unusually skinny frame. It had a modest neckline, slim waist and immensely droopy sleeves. She had not yet discovered a mirror, so she had to trust to hope with her appearance as she finger-combed her hair.

Feeling somewhat wearied from her exertions, Elanor returned to the bed and sat on the edge. Without anything to do, her thoughts strayed back to Frodo.

 _This has to be a nightmare… he can't be dead… Sam's gonna hate me… and probably no one else will trust me either, much less help me get home… this is terrible…_

She had not been resting long when someone tapped on her door.

"Come in," she called nervously.

* * *

Gandalf was pleasantly surprised to see Elanor awake and sitting upon her bed when he entered shortly after the eighth hour. She had dressed in the soft grey gown provided by the Elves—this brought a triumphant smile to his face—and looked considerably better rested.

"Good morning, Miss Elanor," he intoned courteously, giving her a small bow. "I hope you are recovering from your ordeal."

She gave him a hesitant smile. "Pretty well."

Gandalf paused, noting the fear and guilt in her eyes.

"I believe there are several things we ought to consider ere the Council this day."

"That might be good," came her soft response.

Reaching for a nearby chair, Gandalf seated himself imperiously and removed his pointed blue hat before beginning: "This council, Miss Elanor, is of greatest importance—of this I am sure you are aware." She gave a tense nod, and he continued. "Frodo did not fail in his quest to bring the Ring to Imladris; the outcome was not as I would have wished it—" Elanor's face paled to chalk-white at that "—but we must look forward now. Lord Elrond believes the only course of action is to see the Ring destroyed, as I believe you know.

"You spoke of a small Fellowship travelling with the Ringbearer, and this is in accordance with Lord Elrond's plans. However," he leaned in, his blue eyes reflecting the seriousness of his words, "none but he and I know of your strange foresight. It would not do to reveal too much. All who have gathered are united in opposition to Sauron, but this does not mean they are in agreement. There has long been animosity between the Firstborn Elves and the Dwarves. Furthermore, with Frodo travels a man who may change the fortune of Middle Earth. Aragorn, son of—"

"Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor," she supplied quietly.

"—yes, just so," Gandalf beamed, surprised at her knowledge. "Lord Aragorn has the power to reclaim the throne in Minas Tirith from Boromir's father, Denethor, the Steward."

"I do remember that from the movie," Elanor affirmed. "He thought Gondor was doing alright even without a King."

Gandalf nodded again. The woman was quick-witted and sensitive. _She is a valuable source of information, especially in light of Saruman's betrayal… but she is unschooled, and unfamiliar with our ways… that is of lesser concern, however._

"Indeed, miss; Lord Denethor is a hard-willed man, and his son has come to find answers to many questions. It appears that word travels swifter than the Maeras in your world, but tidings of the Ring are few and far between in Middle Earth. It's very existence is unknown to many, and but a few believe it to have been destroyed or irrevocably lost."

Elanor looked thoughtful at this.

"Is there a problem, Miss?" he inquired.

She shrugged. "Just a bit different from the movies. I guess Peter Jackson couldn't imagine people _not_ knowing all about the Ring. This seems more logical, though—you guys can't broadcast it like we could on the internet or in newspapers."

Concealing his ignorance about Peter Jackson and the _internet_ , Gandalf smiled and smoothed his thick grey beard.

"Precisely. Lord Boromir will be astonished indeed to discover these tidings; as will many others. On behalf of Lord Elrond, I beseech you to seal your lips during the Council; not as an insult, for we offer none, but to ensure that no further disruptions occur."

"Yeah," she whispered, low. "Gandalf, about Frodo—"

He nodded, urging her to continue.

Elanor's voice was pained but steady. "My appearance here set off something that caused Frodo to die, didn't it?"

Gandalf pressed his lips together. _She blames herself, and grieves for him as if she knew him…_

 _"_ Gandalf?" she persisted.

He struggled to meet her gaze. "That is how Lord Elrond perceives it, yes. Never before has such a thing occurred, but the very fabric of Arda seems to have been rewoven by your coming."

The revelation seemed to rest heavily upon her, but she nodded bravely.

"Well, I'll just have to do my best to get things back to how the story goes."

Smiling inwardly at the way she shouldered the burden, Gandalf nodded.

"What do you believe this to entail?"

Elanor leaned backwards wearily and stared out of the window.

"I'm not really sure, yet. I know the people that are supposed to go on the quest, and how they will react to the Ring," she admitted.

Somewhat alarmed, he raised a warning hand. "Do not reveal too much, dear lady, for such a thing could wreak havoc!"

"Oh, of course not," Elanor cried. "I know enough about it to know that telling you your future is a _terrible_ idea. Besides, I never had contact with Frodo, and his storyline still changed. There's no telling what will happen to the rest of you even if I do nothing."

 _She is wiser than you first believed,_ his inner voice prodded him gleefully.

"Well spoken, lady." Noting the time, he hurried to a conclusion. "Is there aught else of importance you wish to speak of? For I must depart, to speak with Lord Aragorn."

Elanor considered it for a moment, before speaking: "Just that Sam is important—he is good and optimistic and has strong character. He needs to go on the quest—and is probably… probably one of the better people to carry the Ring."

"Very well," nodded Gandalf. "I have but one more request; when you speak with others, take heed, for though you speak the words of the Common Tongue, it is as unlike our language as a pebble from a precious stone. Your accent is peculiar, though not of the greatest importance. However, many words you use are as unknown as the Black Speech of Mordor in these lands. Guard your tongue, for your own sake as well as Lord Elrond's and my own."

Elanor looked taken aback, but swallowed the criticism with a certain degree of dignity.

"I will—endeavour—to be cautious," she said finally.

"Excellent," Gandalf smiled. "And now, Lord Elrond desires you to come to the council."

* * *

Elanor hesitated at Gandalf's words, not sure how to address her other concerns.

"Ah, Gandalf?" she said, finally, after he had nearly reached the door in his long, purposeful stride.

"Yes, miss?" he replied, seeming a little surprised to be addressed again.

"I have—ah, some—problems—other problems, that I need help with."

He smiled like a benevolent grandfather. "Name them, lady, and I will do my utmost to aid you."

She could feel her cheeks heat up as she contemplated the awkward situation before her.

"I need—I need some, things, for a woman—for women. Women's things," she finally blurted, studying her toes. Trying to ease her own discomfort, she smiled at him shyly. "I also need some shoes."

Gandalf, thankfully, took her peculiar request in his stride.

"Naturally, lady. I will send Indilwen to see to your needs, and she will then lead you to the place we shall meet. Do not tarry, for the council begins shortly." With that he bowed courteously and disappeared, an amused twinkle in his blue eyes.

* * *

 **And there is Chapter 6!**

 **I had originally intended this chapter to also include the Council of Elrond, but when I assessed how much I needed to include in that scene, the cumulative length would've been 6,000 words!**

 **Instead, I decided to split them up. You shall have Chapter 6 now, and hopefully very soon (as soon as I'm done editing) Chapter 7, The Council.**

 **I do hope you're all liking this so far! More coming either today or tomorrow.**

 **Thanks, Finwe ^_^**


	7. The (long awaited) Council of Elrond

**Chapter 7 - The (long awaited) Council of Elrond**

* * *

A short time later, Elanor was following Indilwen's graceful stride down a lofty corridor. Her dilemmas had been resolved, to varying degrees of satisfaction. Attempting to forget her uncomfortable conversation with the grinning Elf woman, Elanor drank in her surroundings.

Even the hallways in Rivendell were exquisite. Magnificent archways soared above her head, engraved with such smooth precision and care that they would put Earth's modern architecture to shame. The doors were similarly carved, and in many places the windows were made of breathtaking stained glass images of scenes and people she did not recognise. Artwork and sculptures were tastefully placed and the whole building seemed to live in perfect harmony with the trees and gardens around it.

 _I could happily live here forever, I think… except… Tim… and Mum, and Dad, and Georgia… oh gosh, I can't even enjoy things here without thinking of home!_

As the pair—Elf and human—passed through a pair of open doors, the wide corridor began to swing around to the left. To Elanor's right, the wall simply disappeared, leaving it open to the garden save for vine-covered columns.

Far too quickly, they reached a lovely raised terrace, looking out over the gardens. Above the terrace was a latticework frame, entwined with yellow bell-like flowers that looked uncannily like a jasmine vine her mother had grown.

Homesickness wrenched Elanor's stomach at that thought, so she continued to study her breathtaking surroundings. On the stone pavement of the terrace was a circle of graceful chairs. Despite longing for her family, Elanor could not help but smile at the thought of attending _the_ Council of Elrond.

Several people were milling about as Indilwen indicated for Elanor to take a seat, and then departed with a friendly grin. Before a minute had passed, a clear bell chimed and the remainder of those attending reached the terrace.

* * *

For the next ten minutes, Elanor stared dumbfounded as characters from a childhood novel sat before her eyes. She studied Gandalf for only a moment, noting the familiar long nose, bushy eyebrows and long grey robes, before moving to the mighty Elf-lord sitting at his left hand.

Lord Elrond—it could be no one else—certainly cut an impressive figure. He was as broad of shoulder as Gandalf, and taller still. His hair was very dark, and Elanor was struck by how handsome and proud he looked. His eyes were warm and grey—a characteristic shared by most of the Rivendell Elves—and he appeared somehow akin to Boromir. Elanor decided that she liked him very much, and that he would make a good leader; responsible and kind. He was surrounded by a group of other Elf men, and she found her study of them intriguing. They were attractive enough, but more than that they had an other-worldly majesty in the way they held themselves. Their faces were wholesome and seemed to possess a deep-rooted goodness that she found hard to define exactly, but liked all the same.

Next were a pair of red-haired Dwarves. Trying to stop her mouth from gaping, she marvelled at their short, thickset builds. Both were less than a metre and a half tall, and had huge, bushy beards. Even their heads were stouter and rounder than any she had ever seen, and their entire bodies were knotted with stocky muscles beneath their tunics.

Searching for the other members of the _Fellowship-to-be_ , Elanor located Boromir, who favoured her with a nod and smile. He was no longer wearing his travel-worn clothes, and had evidently had time to rest and recuperate like herself.

There was no sign of any of the hobbits, which disappointed her greatly. However, she remembered that they had not been present at the council until the end, and hoped she would catch a glimpse of them. She was unable to find either Legolas or Aragorn either, and finally turned her attention back to Lord Elrond.

He had already begun the proceedings, and his face was sombre as he spoke. After a moment he gestured to Elanor's travelling companion.

"Here," he said to the rest of the council, "is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived several days ago, and seeks for counsel. With him came a lady, Elanor by name, whom he discovered on his travels and also sought Imladris. I have bidden them both to be present, for here their questions will be answered."

It took Elanor a moment to realise that Lord Elrond was referring to her. Her cheeks went pink, knowing she must appear tired and wan amongst this gathering of dignified faces. However, he had moved on before she could do anything, and the eyes of the council drifted away from her.

It did not take long for the romantic appeal of attending the meeting to wear thin; it was not the dramatic and fleeting thing she had come to expect. Elrond began with a long history of events in Middle Earth, most of which she had no knowledge of. The unfamiliar place names began to blur into each other, and she began to grow weary. Much of the conversation was lost in her memory, and later she could recall but brief snippets.

 _Elanor Ravenscroft! You're at one of the most famous book scenes in history, in the presence of Elves and Dwarves, and you can't even manage to pay attention!_ she told herself reproachfully. Try as she might, though, her attention strayed…

* * *

…there had been a change in speaker. Kicking herself for letting her mind wander, Elanor blinked several times. The elder of the two dwarves—Gimli's father, Glóin—had begun to talk, and for a short while she listened attentively.

Glóin spoke of a horseman from Mordor, come to treat with King Dain in Erebor.

 _So Sauron did try and recruit the Dwarves… I guess there's only so much PJ could get into three movies…_

After Glóin concluded, Elrond spoke again, and this time Elanor willed herself to listen:

"That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.

"Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it."

Hearing the tale of the One Ring from Elrond's perspective was a new experience for Elanor. It was very different, listening to the Elf-lord's clear voice, compared to Cate Blanchett's abbreviated version at the start of _Fellowship of the Ring_. Elrond was far from long-winded, but the story took a long time to tell. It was almost poetic, the way he described the battle during which Sauron lost his finger and the Ring—Elanor's memories of the movie flashbacks were far removed from Elrond's tale.

Elrond paused a while and sighed when he reached this point in the story. "I remember well the splendour of their banners," he said. "It recalled to me the glory of the Elder Days and the hosts of Beleriand, so many great princes and captains were assembled. And yet not so many, nor so fair, as when Thangorodrim was broken, and the Elves deemed that evil was ended for ever, and it was not so."

Wishing that she had a better understanding of the histories of Middle Earth— _Georgia would be able to give me an in-depth recount of everything from the beginning of Creation—_ she tried to piece together the stories. It swiftly became apparent how very _old_ Elrond was. Vaguely remembering the Elves were extremely long-lived, she guessed he could easily be several hundred years old and still look like a man of thirty…

 _…but wouldn't it be weird to live that long and see other humans grow and die around you? I don't think I could do it…_

When Elrond described how Isildur took the Ring during the battle, Boromir's face lit up and he broke in, regaining Elanor's interest:

"So that is what became of the Ring! If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been

forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tidings indeed."

"Alas! yes," said Elrond. "Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But few marked what Isildur did. He alone stood by his father in that last mortal contest; and by Gil-galad only Círdan stood, and I. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel."

The seriousness of the situation pressed upon Elanor as she listened to the archaic speech.

 _To me, this whole thing is just a nightmare story, that I'm participating in like a choose-your-own-adventure book. But to everyone else, this is their life. They are living and breathing and oh gosh, they don't even know if everything's going to be ok. This is genuinely frightening for them._

Though Boromir had undoubtedly been real as she had travelled north with him, it had taken the sight of Rivendell to convince Elanor; to Gandalf, and Elrond, and Glóin, this was real life and all they had known.

 _And now I've come and changed the story… oh gosh, what if they don't make it because I caused Frodo to die? What if the entire quest is doomed because of that? And what if I can't escape, and am stuck here in the messed-up world I created…_

* * *

 _…oh, goodness, I'm self-centred_ , Elanor berated herself as she struggled to tune back into the conversation yet again. Boromir had taken over now, telling of his strange vision.

"In that dream I thought the eastern sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

 ** _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_**

 ** _In Imladris it dwells;_**

 ** _There shall be counsels taken_**

 ** _Stronger than Morgul-spells._**

 ** _There shall be shown a token_**

 ** _That Doom is near at hand,_**

 ** _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_**

 ** _And the Halfling forth shall stand._**

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father, Denethor, Lord of Minas Tirith, wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of a far northern dale, where Elrond the Halfelven dwelt, greatest of lore-masters. Therefore my brother, seeing how desperate was our need, was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard, but few knew where it lay. And upon the road, I encountered the Lady Elanor, who seemed bound on an errand not unlike my own. Together we have come to seek answers."

Elanor met Boromir's eyes again and smiled. She liked the way he spoke, without any crass slang or laziness. Perhaps she would take more notice of Gandalf's words, and correct her own speech…

 _But I don't sound that_ _bad… do I?_

"And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you," said Aragorn, standing up and causing Elanor to jump a little. He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and the blade was in two pieces. "Here is the Sword that was Broken!" he said.

Elanor's face was twisted in confusion as she surveyed the blade.

 _Isn't that supposed to be on some pedestal-display-thing here in Rivendell?_

She was not the only one bemused by Aragorn's actions. Boromir, too, appeared astonished.

"And who are you, and what have you to do with Minas Tirith?" he asked. Elanor noted the scepticism in his voice with a degree of apprehension; she had hoped that perhaps her appearance might have altered other aspects of the storyline—preferably to achieve a more favourable outcome than causing Frodo to die…

Elrond intervened. "He is Aragorn son of Arathorn," said Elrond; "and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk."

There was silence for a moment, as the council digested this announcement. Elrond's proclamation of Aragorn's lineage had left goosebumps on Elanor's arms. Boromir was certainly a mighty man, but there was something even more kingly about "Strider" as he stood there in his weatherbeaten cloak.

Finally, Boromir spoke again: "Then the Ring is, by rights, yours."

"It does not belong to anyone," Aragorn replied, firmly. "Though it was ordained that Frodo would carry it, for a time."

"And now, I believe, is the time to bring out the Ring," added Gandalf. "Lady Elanor, if you please."

Elanor frowned at him, dumbstruck.

"I—I don't know what you mean," she stammered, amazed to be addressed thus. "I certainly don't have it!"

"Try your right pocket," Gandalf suggested coyly, twinkling at her.

The rest of the council was waiting expectantly. Elanor reached down her right side, groping along her skirt for a pocket concealed there. Her hand found the opening—and there, at the bottom, was a cool, hard object.

 _The One Ring is in my pocket._

 _Oh. My. God. The_ One Ring _is in my pocket._

 _How in heaven's name did it get there?_

 _Wait._

 _Everyone's watching me. Oh gosh._

Gulping, she drew the Ring out and walked tremulously to the centre of the council, where stood a stone pedestal. Eager to be rid of the Ring, she placed it firmly down and moved hastily back to her chair, repulsed by having touched something so evil.

She met Gandalf's eyes across the circle as she found her seat and fixed him with her most pointed glare. He appeared to be quite amused—and rather astonished. Making her mind up to berate him for it later, she stared at the ground until her cheeks cooled.

From the other side of the circle, Boromir spoke: "Isildur's Bane, I presume; but I do not see the halfling of which the riddle spoke. What, then, has occurred?"

Elanor shifted uneasily, feeling the weight of the stares directed at her.

"Frodo, son of Drogo, is the hobbit of which the riddle speaks," Gandalf said, slowly, drawing their attention upon himself. "But we have been plagued by ill-fortune—Frodo perished not long after he arrived in Rivendell, despite Lord Elrond's efforts. He was poisoned by a Morgul blade, and could not be saved."

"This is grievous news indeed," cried Boromir. "Doom is truly upon us!"

* * *

…Elanor leaned back in her chair, full of a bewildering mixture of boredom, confusion, homesickness and annoyance at Gandalf.

Aragorn had met the other man's pronouncement with dignity and confidence and continued on…

 _What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee, dad's armchair, and a good book…_

 _You're in a book,_ came a pointed thought.

 _Oh, shut up!_

At this point, a tiny figure jumped from his chair to defend Aragorn—Bilbo Baggins, she realised. His face was lined, and his eyes red from weeping, but he quoted two verses of poetry before sitting down again…

* * *

…"But now the world is changing once again," Aragorn intoned, gravely. "A new hour comes. Isildur's Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I will come to Minas Tirith."

"Isildur's Bane is found, you say," said Boromir. "I have seen a bright ring in Lady Elanor's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?" He seemed puzzled as he looked at Elanor, and he no longer smiled, as if he did not know her.

 _Ouch._

"That shall be told," said Elrond.

"But not yet, I beg, Master!" cried Bilbo, though Elanor could not see him from where she sat. "Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me."

"I had not named you," said Elrond smiling. "But I do so now. Come! Tell us your tale. And if you have not yet cast your story into verse, you may tell it in plain words. The briefer, the sooner shall you be refreshed."

Elanor's hopes of a swift adjournment were dashed, as Bilbo began his tale of the discovery of the Ring in _The Hobbit_. Clearly it was a new tale to some, but Elanor knew it well, and happily tuned out. Instead, she studied the Ring on the pedestal before her.

 _I thought it was supposed to affect you_ , she mused. _But all I felt was a desire to get the thing as far from me as possible! I didn't want to keep it in the slightest…_

* * *

…Gandalf was speaking again.

"Some, Galdor," said he, directing his words to an Elf opposite, "would think the tidings of Glóin, and the pursuit of Frodo, proof enough that this ring is a thing of great worth to the Enemy. Yet it is a ring. What then? The Nine the Nazgûl keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed." At this Glóin stirred, but did not speak. "The Three we know of. What then is this one that he desires so much?

"There is indeed a wide waste of time between the River and the Mountain, between the loss and the finding. But the gap in the knowledge of the Wise has been filled at last. Yet too slowly. For the Enemy has been close behind, closer even than I feared. And well is it that not until this year, this very summer, as it seems, did he learn the full truth."

Realising that she was about to hear Gandalf's tale of Gollum and Saruman, Elanor sighed. Loudly, it appeared, for the Elf seated beside her looked at her curiously.

"Sorry," she whispered, giving him an apologetic smile.

He returned the gesture, before seeking out Gandalf once more and allow Elanor to return to her reverie…

* * *

 _Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

 _ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."_

…the harsh utterance caused Elanor to shift uneasily in her seat; the words seemed to radiate pure malice.

 _He must be reading what's on the Ring,_ she realised.

Trying to forget the bone-chilling sound, she sought out Bilbo with her eyes. The hobbit seemed as exasperated with the length of the proceedings as herself, and she half-wished she could go sit by him. Unfortunately, she was placed between two tall Elves and didn't want to cause a scene by asking everyone to scoot one chair over…

* * *

…Boromir inquired of Gollum, and Aragorn's responded: the creature was imprisoned, held by the Elves of MIrkwood.

"Alas! alas!" cried the Elf to Elanor's right, and in his fair elvish face there was great distress. "The tidings that I was sent to bring must now be told. They are not good, but only here have I learned how evil they may seem to this company. Sméagol, who is now called Gollum, has escaped."

 _That must be Legolas_ , she thought, comprehension dawning on her countenance. Of all the Fellowship-to-be, he was most unlike his movie counterpart. Real-book Legolas had dark brown hair and lively blue eyes.

 _I'm sitting next to Legolas, the lord of all teenage heartthrobs._ What _would Georgia say if she could see me now!_

Fervently wishing her sister was by her side, Elanor stole a coy glance at Legolas. He was describing Gollum's escape, which was of little interest to her.

 _He doesn't have Orlando Bloom's boy-band face,_ she couldn't help but think. The real Legolas would be far less of an idolised figure if the world saw his true self. The handsome blonde Elf sitting near Elrond—she did not know his name—would attract far more attention if she managed to smuggle a photograph home.

 _Home._

The thought of Australia's east coast seemed very far from this surreal meeting. Elanor longed to return to the quiet privacy of her bedroom and forget the whole nightmare.

 _If I were a true heroine, like Georgia, I'd be offering them advice and joining the Fellowship. But, quite frankly, that's the last thing I want to do. And if Gandalf so much as_ hints _at it I'll tell him what I think of him!_

The wizard in question had resumed speaking, telling of his meeting with Saruman and subsequent escape. Fortunately, Peter Jackson had deviated little from Tolkien here, and Elanor was unsurprised by any of his narrative…

* * *

"…who are they to be? That seems to me what this Council has to decide, and all that it has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone, and Dwarves endure great weariness; but I am only an old hobbit, and I miss my meal at noon. Can't you think of some names now? Or put it off till after dinner?"

A smile tugged at Elanor's mouth as Bilbo spoke, his high little voice heard loud and clear in the stillness of the pavilion. On and on the council had stretched, with talk of Saruman's betrayal and the effect it would have upon the war against Sauron, of Gondor's need for aid, and of the other Rings of Power. Elanor ached for it all to be over, but here at last was the most important part; _who would take the Ring, and who else would accompany them?_

 _If it were not for the whole disaster surrounding Frodo, this would be almost exciting… As it is, everyone else sitting here would be extremely dangerous with the Ring in their hands…_

Gandalf was frowning pensively into his beard, and even Elrond looked troubled.

 _Well, it won't be me, that's for certain—I'm not going anywhere near Mordor._

Just as she thought this, Elanor heard a small yet determined voice from outside the circle of chairs.

"I will take the Ring to Mordor."

As all who had gathered turned to the location of the voice, Elanor spied a diminutive figure walking nervously forward into the centre of the council.

"Samwise Gamgee!" cried Gandalf in astonishment, breaking the silence. The rest of the council merely watched as the hobbit strode forward. Tears were upon his cheeks, but he held himself with great determination.

"Though…" he hesitated, "…I do not know the way."

* * *

 **So there you have my contemporary take on the Council!**

 **There are some block-text quotes from _Fellowship of the Ring_ in this one, as it seemed easiest to let the characters speak as they would in the council-Elanor did not cause that much of a disruption!**

 **However, this was an extremely hard chapter to write, as the original book chapter drags on forever, and I had no desire to have Elanor commentating that much.**

 **I would love feedback on how you thought I did with this one! It's been tricky but hopefully enjoyable to read.**

 **Chapter 8 will be in the works shortly, though needs more planning.**

 **Thanks guys! Finwe :)**


	8. Further counsel

**Chapter 8 - Further counsel**

* * *

Elanor stared numbly at her plate, caught between ravenous hunger and amazement at all that had transpired that morning.

She was seated at an immense table, upon which a feast had been prepared. The council had adjourned half an hour before, and Lord Elrond had led his guests from the terrace to an elegant dining hall. Elanor had scarcely noticed the architecture, her mind abuzz with a multitude of thoughts.

 _…you did hope that Sam would take the Ring… well at least that went right… how on_ earth _did Gandalf get the Ring into my pocket… I wonder where he is… Indilwen would probably know… I'd like to speak with Elrond… Georgia would love this… far out, I miss them… everything here is so surreal and beautiful… I wonder if Middle Earth knows about chocolate… perhaps Gandalf invented it… I am going to_ kill _him for doing that to me… I wonder why they didn't pick the rest of the Council today… maybe they'll do that later… oh gosh, I hope Sam can pull the quest off alright… I just want to go home…_

Realising that people were bustling around her, Elanor drew herself back to her surroundings. She had been seated close to one end of the table. To her immense surprise, she discovered that Legolas was at her right hand. He noticed her looking at him and smiled.

"You appear to have a strange tale, Lady Elanor," he said to her, breaking the ice. "I would be most interested to hear of your travels, and of the land from which you hail."

 _Georgia is not going to believe this… She would strangle someone for the chance to have a one-on-one with Legolas Greenleaf…_

Elanor hesitated a little, trying to phrase her sentences more like Legolas did.

"Thankyou, Legolas. I have—ah, journeyed—far to come here." Unsure whether to make something up about her past, she gave a small shrug. "I am from a land far to the south, where we have—ah, many… peculiar creatures."

 _I wonder what he'd do if he came face-to-face with a kangaroo or a cassowary…_

"I fear I know little of the lands of which you speak—I have not travelled to the south, but I hope to learn more from your tales."

She gave a small laugh at that. "It is not so very different from here, I'm afraid."

Fortunately, she was saved from having to lie further. Elrond had reached the head of the table which stood upon the dais, not far from where Elanor sat. To his left and right were Gandalf and the tall-golden haired Elf she had noticed at the Council—Glorfindel, she had heard someone call him. Both appeared lordly and dignified, and to Elanor they seemed like kings of ancient legend.

 _They are kings out of a legend, silly!_

From his seat of honour, Elrond bid them all to eat, and she found she could ignore her frazzling thoughts for a time. The food was more than enough to occupy her, thin and hungry as she was.

It startled Elanor somewhat to realise that Elves were not—as she had imagined—vegetarian. Their diet was wholesome and varied, but there was tender venison and roast chicken with the meal. The flavours were unfamiliar, but nonetheless delightful, and she happily engaged in light-hearted banter with the Prince of Mirkwood while they ate.

Stealing an occasional glance to the dais, she noticed that even Gandalf and the two mighty Elves had abandoned their solemn discussions to savour the food. Vowing to keep an eye on them, she did her best to enjoy her conversation with the Elf by her side.

Whilst Legolas was occupied dismantling a chicken leg, Elanor observed the remainder of the room. Her heart gave a leap of joy to see four hobbits at the table, Bilbo sitting with the rest. Merry and Pippin were as she had imagined them, with twinkly eyes and cheerful faces, and Sam seemed less woebegone after his startling announcement at the council. Boromir was listening raptly to a strange Elf a little further distant, whilst Gimli and Glóin were seated near the halflings. Of Aragorn she could find no sign.

Eyes wandering up the opposite side of the table, she paused as she sighted the most perfectly beautiful woman she could imagine.

 _That has_ got _to be Arwen._

She was sitting on a chair beneath a canopy, in a delicate silver dress. Her hair was raven-black, and her eyes unclouded grey. Her skin was fair, and she had pearls and lace through her dark tresses. She was, in fact, a feminine version of Elrond, and made Elanor feel very small and plain. Like her father, she possessed a peculiar agelessness; she appeared young, but her face was wise and knowing, as if she had seen much.

 _And, if possible, she's even more perfect than Liv Tyler!_

Elanor hurriedly turned her attention back to Legolas, not desiring to draw Arwen's gaze upon herself. She had not looked in a mirror for a month, and knew that she probably had dark circles under her eyes and a pimple outbreak on her chin. She'd never been particularly special at home, but at least she hadn't been ugly. Now, she couldn't help feeling a little resentful that she was so extremely ordinary.

 _I suppose it's every girl's dream to be the striking beauty of a story_ , she contemplated, thinking wryly of her romanticised childhood fantasies. _But it's another thing entirely to be your plain old self in a world full of flawless Elves! At least they're polite, no matter what you look like…_

Once her stomach was sated, she half-listened to Legolas' stories of his homeland whilst keeping an eye fixed upon the three figures at the head of the table. She would not let Gandalf slip away without answers this time—and had several questions she wouldn't mind posing to Lord Elrond.

"…the Greenwood is falling into decay, and heavy is my heart at the thought. I remember many a century in which it flourished, and all was well. But alas, for these are not such pleasant times…"

"Many a century?" inquired Elanor, curious. "I know that the Elves are long-lived, but I had not thought so long as that… How old are you, if I might ask?"

Legolas laughed, the sound ringing out like a pure bell chime.

"We do not age and die, as fleeting mortals; we simply endure, unless we are killed in battle or lose the desire to live. This is why Elves pass over the sea, to Valinor, when they are weary of this existence. I have seen many lives of men since the day I was conceived."

"So… you're immortal?"

Legolas nodded slowly, as if this was blindingly obvious. "Yea, lady. An Elf is not considered fully grown until they reach five score years."

"I don't quite understand," Elanor said sheepishly. "Five score? Is that twenty-five?"

"One hundred."

 _They reach adulthood after a normal person would die…_

"I see…"

"And how old are you, Lady Elanor? You are evidently considered full-grown by the standards of your race," Legolas inquired smilingly.

"I am twenty-one."

"You would be a child in the halls of my father," he grinned. Elanor smiled back. This Legolas was not what she had expected, but she liked him all the same. His face was clean-cut and kind, and his voice had a pleasant lilt to it. She enjoyed his conversation, for he was merry and engaging-if not the brooding, smouldering character that Peter Jackson had created.

 _You'd break the fangirls' hearts if you told them that, though…_

"Yes, I would. And you would be impossibly old in the halls of _my_ father; we only live to be less than a century, mostly," she retorted, playfully. "Though my great-aunt lived to be one hundred and three, and that was considered very old."

"The lives of humans are indeed fleeting," cried Legolas, sorrow creasing his brow. "I cannot imagine an existence so short!"

"But don't you get bored, living forever?"

The Elf held his hands open in a shrug, having finished his chicken leg. "There is much to learn, Lady Elanor. We have ample time to study and improve our skills. And then, when we are truly weary, we pass over the sea, to the Undying Lands."

"That would be nice," she murmured, a little absent-mindedly. Gandalf had begun to stir from his chair, and she watched as Elrond and Glorfindel also rose. They passed behind the rows of feasters and out of the dining hall. "I'm very sorry Legolas, but I must leave. There are people I must speak with, though it has been most—enjoyable… conversing with you." She gave him a warm smile. Unsure whether curtseys were the norm here, she bobbed her head politely instead and hoped she hadn't used any words that were glaringly modern.

"Likewise, Lady Elanor," Legolas replied, smiling. "We shall speak later, for I would hear more of your homeland."

"I would love to tell you some stories," she admitted, pleased by his interest. "Enjoy the rest of your lunch!"

* * *

Elanor slipped past the door through which the three men had disappeared and glanced up and down the empty corridor. She could hear faint voices, but couldn't tell which direction they came from.

 _Darn it… where did they go?_

Shrugging to herself, she turned right and padded softly along. With a triumphant smile, she realised the sounds were getting louder, and finally paused outside a door. It had been left slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, she peeped through…

…and nearly let out a squeak of alarm when someone pulled it open the remainder of the way with an abrupt jerk.

 _Gandalf._

He stood there in the doorway, smiling down at her.

"Ah, Miss Elanor—excellent timing. We were expecting you." With that, he gestured for her to enter the room.

It was a study of some kind, with tall bookshelves and comfortable chairs. The windows were wide and bright, and a small blaze crackled in one corner. Near the fireplace sat Lord Elrond and Glorfindel, as kingly and refined as ever—and seemingly unsurprised at her appearance.

Realising that she was gawping awkwardly at the threshold, Elanor hurried inside. She hesitated behind the circle of armchairs, but Elrond smiled reassuringly and indicated for her to sit.

"Lady Elanor," he said, in his clear, kind voice.

"Lord Elrond," she replied, with a weak smile. Turning to the golden-haired Elf, she repeated the gesture. "Lord Glorfindel."

"Lady Elanor."

Elanor stared uneasily at her hands, her mind whirling as she wondered what kind of civilities were expected when conversing with an Elf-lord.

 _Ohhhhhh dear._

 _How did they know I was coming?_

 _I've put my foot in it now…_

 _Am I supposed to curtsey? Or bow?_

 _And is that the correct address?_

 _Lord Elrond?_

 _I'm in a meeting._

 _With_ Elrond _._

 _And Glorfindel._

 _And Gandalf!_

 _Oh gosh, I'm gonna kill him…_

"Now," said Gandalf, rubbing his hands expectantly. "I believe that there are many things to discuss, things that cannot be spoken of openly—even before those allied against the work of Sauron."

Elanor gulped and attempted to dry her sweaty hands on the skirt of her dress. She felt immensely small in the richly upholstered armchair, with the gaze of all three men upon her, as if they expected her to perform great feats. The silence lingered like a weighty blanket.

"I believe you foretold that Master Gamgee would take the Ring," Glorfindel said, finally. He had a similar air to Elrond, though he was evidently the dark-haired Elf's junior. "Is it not so, Gandalf?"

Gandalf nodded. "Only this morning, Elanor spoke of Samwise as one who might bear the Ring."

Silence returned after this brief statement, seeming put out to have been overridden. Anxious to speak, but not wanting to appear impolite, Elanor cleared her throat nervously.

"How did the One Ring end up in _my_ pocket, Gandalf?"

The wizard chuckled at that. "I merely wished to see how you would react, good lady. As it were, you handled yourself with great composure. Forgive me for not informing you of my actions."

"It was a bit of a shock," Elanor admitted, staggered by Gandalf's boldness and flair for the dramatic, but struggling to remain angry with him.

"Indeed," he replied, looking thoroughly unrepentant. "Now—to Master Gamgee. Lord Elrond?"

Elrond's brow was furrowed in contemplation as he looked up at Elanor.

"Gandalf has informed me of your knowledge of future events, through the aid of a book. Firstly, from whence does this book come? Is it a reliable source? I will not place the fate of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth upon an unfounded claim. And secondly, do you truly believe Samwise Gamgee may bear the Ring?" The Elf-lord's grey eyes rested on her steadily. Elanor felt a fervent desire not to let him down.

Still feeling rather nervous to speak in such a lofty circle, she paused before beginning. "The first question is easy to answer: as far as I have seen, the book is extremely accurate. I'll have to read through it again to check, but nothing has contradicted it. The second—"

"Do you mean that you possess a copy?" cried Glorfindel, looking both horrified and intrigued.

"…Ye-es," Elanor finally admitted. "But it is hidden. And it may well be of no use now—Frodo dying has changed the entire story."

"Such a book is certainly not to be bandied about," agreed Gandalf. "But we may discuss that later. Please, continue."

Elanor sighed, unsure who to look at while she was speaking. "The second question is not as simple. In the original story, Sam accompanied Frodo, for—well… as long as the quest continued," she finished, somewhat lamely. Irrespective of the changes made to the book, it hardly seemed wise to confess that the quest had succeeded in the original when it hung in the balance now. "I'm sure you at least, Gandalf, can see the effect that the Ring had on Gollum, and on Bilbo. It certainly influenced Frodo, and Sam stuck by him fiercely. He was loyal, and less easily corrupted than some of the others. But he didn't carry the Ring for a prolonged period of time. I'm sure that he's good-hearted, but I simply can't guarantee anything. He may have the strength to do what Frodo did, but he also may not." Feeling wretched as she met Elrond's gaze, she looked down. "I'm sorry. If it weren't for me, this wouldn't have happened."

"Do not mourn your own coming," the Elf said gently, smiling as she glanced up at him through tears. "This was not of your making, but rather the work of Morgoth in his pride. Since the foundation of the world, his evil has spread, and this is but one result."

 _Who in heaven's name is Morgoth?_ she wondered. _Tonight would probably be a good time to reread_ The Lord of the Rings _… and maybe that other book Georgia had…_

"However," Elrond continued, "the glory of the Elder Days is not entirely spent. There are many still who shall fight."

Elanor's heart thumped queerly. He continued looking at her while he spoke, and all her nervousness was overcome by a desperate desire _not_ to be chosen to be part of the Fellowship. It went against all her understanding of how a heroine should react, but she would not undertake the quest to Mordor—not even if the portal home was at the top of Mount Doom.

"Lord Elrond— _I_ am not going to be one of the Fellowship, am I?" she asked, in a small pleading voice. She kept her gaze fixed upon him, though she sensed Glorfindel and Gandalf watching her also.

Elrond's studied her thoughtfully for a moment. "You shall remain in Rivendell, for a time, to learn and recover."

 _Well that couldn't be any more ominous if he'd tried._

"So I won't be chosen? To go on the quest?"

"Certainly not," said Gandalf, firmly. "You are weakened and weary, and ill-equipped to travel as we must. I do not doubt your fortitude, but you should only be a hinderance amongst the company. You could not keep pace with us, nor should any expect it—you had best remain behind."

Elanor bristled a little at Gandalf's low estimation of her.

 _What did you expect though, silly? Do you_ want _him to take you with him? Do you want to go through Moria and through the marshes and to Mordor? You'd be picked off at the first sign of orcs, and that would be your only use, as bait—you don't have the Ring and you certainly can't fight!_

Breathing deep, she nodded.

"You are right. I will enjoy resting here."

 _For a time…_ came the smug voice again. _That sounds like you're off on some kind of adventure later, doesn't it?_

Gandalf smiled. "Excellent. We shall have to announce those to accompany Samwise presently, Elrond."

"You've chosen them already?" asked Elanor.

"We cannot force any to go, for it is not an easy task," put in Glorfindel, gravely. "But I would wish to hear your recommendations, Lady Elanor—let us test your foresight."

"Like, the original Fellowship?" she clarified.

"Yea, lady."

"Oh, that's easy: Frodo—no, wait, not anymore… well… Sam, Gandalf, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, Merry and Pippin. Though you've only got eight there, and I suppose you'll have to pick an extra person now."

 _Because of me._

Glorfindel gave her a gracious smile. "You are mostly correct, Lady Elanor. Though we cannot allow the halflings to go—Meriadoc and Peregrin must return to the Shire."

"Oh no," replied Elanor, for the first time feeling somewhat confident. "Merry and Pippin are very important to the story. I'm sure they have to go."

Gandalf looked like he wanted to protest fiercely, though Elrond's face was as smooth as ever.

"Do you think it wise, lady, to send two defenceless Shirelings into the wild?" the latter asked, calmly.

"Maybe not. If this was the original story, I would be able to guarantee their safety—and the necessity for them to go. They may be small, but they affect the outcome of this war of yours."

"Then I shall allow it," Elrond nodded. "Though only if they themselves seek out this task; if they remain silent when the time arises, some other shall have to shake the foundations of Arda in their stead."

"Fair enough," Elanor acceded, with a faint grin. Gandalf was—well, _sassy_ and _bold_ seemed to be the only way she could put it—but Elrond and Glorfindel were incomparably different. They were as steady as the earth, but both possessed a merry twinkle in their eyes—something which made the Elves a great deal more likeable than their lofty and solemn movie-counterparts.

"Who shall the ninth member be?" Elanor asked, wondering whether they would choose another Elf.

"I should willingly devote myself to the cause," replied Glorfindel. "Many ages of men I have dwelt in this house, but should the quest to destroy the Ring fail, even Imladris will no longer be a place of refuge and of comfort."

 _Well that could certainly change the outcome of a lot of things_ , thought Elanor, startled. _But… I did always think that they might've done better with another Elf… and Glorfindel is kind, and powerful and will do what is best… yes… maybe it won't be so bad after all…_

"You think deep thoughts, Lady Elanor," mused Elrond with a grin, startling her.

"Oh," she said, cheeks becoming hot as she realised she'd been staring into space. "Sorry."

"Such matters are of little importance. There are many things to be done—first and formost among these is the collection of information. We must learn much before the Fellowship may set out. In the meanwhile, all shall rest—you included, Lady Elanor." Lord Elrond stood and took a step towards her chair. He seemed very tall as he stood over her.

"Yes, Lord Elrond," she replied meekly, feeling like a child again. She was somewhat startled when he reached out and grasped her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. In a normal situation, she would have recoiled at the touch. Instead, she met his gaze wide-eyed.

Elrond's voice was lower and full of fatherly kindness as he spoke: "The trials you have endured are written on your countenance, and I wish to see you well ere long," he said. Releasing her chin, he grasped her hands and gently pulled her to her feet. "Go and rest, for you are greatly troubled." His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear as he stared into her eyes: "Do not think your task is done, however; there is much that you are yet to accomplish—and far that you must travel. You long for your kindred, but it is not within my power to grant you this wish, greatly as I desire to. The Ring shall leave Imladris and you shall remain—but it is your fate to see it again."

Dread gathered itself into a sickening ball at the base of Elanor's stomach at his words, and she simply nodded. Elrond stood close to her, his grey eyes watching her own keenly.

"If I have to," she replied, feeling rather silly and emotional with tears staining her cheeks. He smiled at that.

"Go, for now we shall speak of things that are of little interest and importance to you. Do as you will in the coming days, and do not hesitate to speak with any that you meet. My home is at your disposal, my lady," Elrond informed her. Glorfindel and Gandalf had also risen, as he spoke with her.

"Thankyou," Elanor whispered, tears spilling from her eyes.

She moved towards Gandalf, who took her hand warmly and pressed his lips it. His beard tickled her fingers and his blue eyes held compassion.

Glorfindel—much to her surprise—took her gently by the shoulders and planted a kiss upon her forehead.

"Márienna," he said, smiling down at her. "Towards happiness, lady."

Then, feeling extremely bewildered and emotional, Elanor allowed herself to be led by Lord Elrond out of the room. When they reached the doorway he bowed, and with one more smile closed the door between them.

* * *

 **I finally feel like I'm managing to tie up some of the loose ends of this story - that Elanor's getting her thoughts more in order. She's missing home like crazy still, but there's a lot less spontaneous sobbing!**

 **Hope you've enjoyed this latest instalment as much as those before it!**

 **Chapter 9 is already in the works - expect it soon.**

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: If you had to remove and replace one member of the Fellowship, who would it be and why? And who would you fill their place with?**

 **Finwe ^_^**


	9. Frivolity - with bad results

**Chapter 9 - A pleasant night, with a less-than-pleasant ending**

 **(A QUICK NOTICE: some pieces of dialogue/poetry in this chapter are copied directly from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ ; full credit goes to Tolkien for these - I merely wished to include them to keep the fanfic with the feel of the original text.)**

* * *

After much wandering, Elanor managed to find her way back to her bedchamber. The tranquil room with its comfortable bed seemed the most beautiful place in the world as she opened the door and stumbled inside.

The bed had been made since her departure that morning, and several items of clothing had been laid out upon it. With a girlish thrill, she hurried to inspect them. She had been provided with several new gowns, in blues and greens. They were flatteringly cut, and made of extremely soft fabric.

 _Real Elvish dresses…_

Picking them up carefully, she carried them to the wardrobe and proceeded to hang them. They felt like liquid beneath her fingers, and she was half-afraid to wear them as she admired their exquisite stitching.

It was only early afternoon, but she was already longing for bed. The Council had been surprisingly draining, and speaking with Gandalf and the other Elves had only added to her exhaustion. She had no idea what had caused Elrond to initiate his display of paternal affection, but it was certainly flattering. She harboured a great deal of admiration for the proud Elf-lord, and hoped she would see more of him.

 _He reminds me of Dad._

The thought stung painfully, but she was unable to deny it's truth; there was a certain similarity in manner between Lord Elrond and her father.

Several tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them. Climbing onto the bed, she buried her face in the pillows and allowed herself the luxury of a heartfelt cry.

 _Oh goodness, I miss him… I miss the smell of Dad's cologne, and the sawdust he leaves round the house… come on Elanor, you're a grown woman, out of home for three years! Crying over your dad! And your mother! And Tim! And even that scoundrel Georgia, who caused this whole mess. Oh goodness, I'll never be angry with any of them ever again, so long as I get out of this place!_

Eventually the tears subsided, and she sat up. Her eyes felt gritty and dry.

Rising reluctantly, she passed to her "bathroom" and splashed her face with cold water from the pump. Knowing she would want a bath later, she hefted the giant pot onto the stove. It took a few minutes of hard exertion to fill it to the brim, but she would be glad of it later. Stoking the fire and adding another piece of wood, she returned to the bed with her backpack.

"And now, Elanor Ravenscroft," she spoke aloud as she pulled out _The Lord of the Rings_ , "it's time to refresh your memory."

* * *

"She is certainly peculiar," admitted Glorfindel, leaning back in his armchair, "but there is no malice in her glance—only sorrow."

"Boromir has informed you of their journey north, I presume?" Gandalf asked, as he pressed some dried leaf into the bowl of his pipe. The three men were once again seated around the fireplace, a air of companionship permeating the room.

"Briefly. I marvel at her endurance—she is hardier than I expected. Few could have continued as she did."

Lord Elrond smiled at this and glanced at his friend and counsellor. "A fire dwells in her bones, despite her size. She is at once both wise and helpless, clever and childlike."

"An apt description," Glorfindel smiled in reply, reaching for a goblet of wine which rested on a nearby table. "Though she is not small, meldo. She is taller than many women of the Eldar." Pausing, he grew serious for a moment. "Do you still believe her coming heralds great evil?"

"No, for there is no evil in her. She is but a result of the peculiar happenings, despite her presence altering the course of events," Elrond replied. "I heralded her arrival with great suspicion, but one glance at her countenance dispelled my doubts. She is to be welcomed, for she has a part to play in this coming struggle."

Gandalf lit his pipe with a great sigh of satisfaction before he spoke. "She will recover well under the influence of Imladris, and grow hale and fair once more."

"I long to see it, for she is pale and wan. Only her eyes retain their beauty—and yet seem overlarge in a countenance so thin. At first I believed her to be of Théoden's people, for she would look at home amongst the golden-haired Rohirrim. Her features are too finely placed for a woman, however, and yet she is no Elf," Glorfindel mused, slowly. "She is a curiosity whom I desire to know more of. I hope she shall converse more readily when she is better rested."

"Indeed she shall," Gandalf affirmed, comfortably puffing on his pipe. "She has a quick tongue, when she stirs herself."

Lord Elrond's brow creased, and both his companions turned to him as he spoke: "It gladdens my heart that Lady Elanor wins friends with such ease, for she shall need them ere the end."

* * *

The sun was shining directly in Elanor's window by she awoke.

She had evidently drifted off whilst reading, for _The Lord of the Rings_ was lying carelessly on her chest, halfway through "Chapter 6: The Old Forest".

She could hear the pot of water on the stove boiling merrily, ready for her bath. Brain foggy from her nap, she forced herself to her feet. Her muscles still creaked stiffly, and she fervently hoped that the hot water would soothe them.

 _You'll have to do some exercise again soon_ , her brain reminded her pertly.

 _Oh_ , s _hut up_.

She ladled water from the pot to the tub, revelling in the fact that she was no longer in drought territory and could have a deep bath if she desired. After topping it up with several cold buckets to make the water a bearable temperature, Elanor slipped out of the grey dress and into the tub for the second time that day.

It was luxurious simply to lie there, inhaling the sweet scent of the Elvish soaps. A fresh pile of towels had been provided— _God bless Indilwen_ —and she remained submerged until the bathwater began to grow tepid. Reluctantly, she washed herself and clambered out.

Dressing quickly in one of her new gowns—an article of soft, leafy green with beautiful cream embroidery—she rubbed her hair dry.

 _Now all I need is a mirror…_

Returning to the wardrobe, she opened various drawers until she encountered a hand-held looking glass. With some trepidation, she turned it to her face.

The person in the reflection was not quite Elanor. Her face was far thinner, and her cheekbones more angular. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, and there was a fierce set to her chin that had never been there before. Only her eyes were the same—wide, grey-green orbs, rimmed with uncharacteristically dark lashes for a blonde.

 _Well at least you haven't had an acne outbreak?_

Walking to her bed, Elanor used the mirror to correct her wildly askew hair. The chin-length blonde curls were almost long enough to tie up. Adding a mental reminder to ask Indilwen for hair accessories, she placed the mirror on the blankets.

She was hungry, and she would not allow herself to have another meal in bed. The green dress was rather flattering, and she felt like a princess despite her bare face and gaunt frame. Dusk had come, and she was sure there would be food somewhere about.

Squaring her shoulders, she moved to the door and opened it. The hallway was empty, but she heard voices and laughter nearby. It did not take long for her to discover a busy thoroughfare.

The Elves were a joy to watch amongst themselves—Elanor had not known that they were such cheerful, light-hearted people. They seemed capable of being serious, but in ordinary situations they laughed as much as they spoke.

She also swiftly realised that the majority conversed with one another in some form of Elvish. The language was pleasing to the ear, but Elanor could not make head or tail of it. Unsure where to find food or familiar faces, she finally resolved to approach a male Elf who stood slightly to one side, and whom she recognised from the Council.

"Excuse me," she said softly as she approached.

"Ah, Lady Elanor," he replied, turning to face her and giving a brief smile and bow. "I am Erestor, one of Elrond's household. I was present upon your arrival in Imladris, though you have no memory of such events. I welcome you now, and glad is my heart to see you stand upon your own feet."

"Thankyou," she murmured, hoping fervently that he had not been privy to her helplessness.

"Is there aught you desire, lady?"

 _They're mighty caught up on this lady-business, aren't they?_

"I am in need of food, and of company, if that can be found."

Erestor bowed again. "Certainly. There are some who wish to meet you. I shall lead you to them."

Profoundly grateful, Elanor fell into step beside him. Unlike Indilwen, who moved almost wordlessly, Erestor pointed out many things as they passed. Elanor marvelled at the beautiful murals that covered several walls.

"What are they of?" she queried, realising that finishing her Tolkien books was imperative.

"Many things, lady, though chief amongst them the Elves' war against Morgoth, and Sauron, his servant."

"Oh."

 _Sauron is Morgoth's servant? Which means that there's a bigger, badder version of Sauron out there? Oh_ goodness _this is bad…_

Pausing outside a pair of closed doors in a quieter part of the house, Erestor gestured for her to enter. "The Hall of Fire, lady. Here many songs and tales have been sung and told. But except on high days it usually stands empty and quiet, and people come here who wish for peace, and thought. There is always a fire here, all the year round, but there is little other light."

"It sounds lovely," Elanor smiled. "Thankyou for bringing me here."

"You are most welcome." Twisting his hand in a peculiar gesture of farewell, Erestor departed.

Hoping she would not disturb anyone, Elanor pushed the door open gently. It creaked a little, but made no other sound.

The great hall had carven pillars down both sides, and was lit with a warm, flickering light from an immense fireplace. Near the fire, she spied four figures sitting upon the ground. The faint sounds of talk and laughter echoed through the hall.

Creeping forward hesitantly, Elanor realised that she was approaching four diminutive people—hobbits.

Stopping several metres away, she cleared her throat. "Ah, hello."

Four slightly startled faces turned towards her. The oldest one softened after a moment, however, and he gestured to her with open arms.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, you are the Lady Elanor," he said, rising.

"You are correct. And I believe that you are Mr Bilbo Baggins?"

The hobbit bowed low. "Quite so, lady."

Elanor's eyes moved over the other three hobbits, still seated. "Master Samwise I have seen too, though I have not met your other friends."

Merry and Pippin rose then, and introduced themselves in their high, polite voices. Sam, however, merely gave a curt nod.

 _He looks, almost… angry… as if I'm to blame for— well… for Frodo dying… oh goodness, how am I going to fix this one?_

"Would you mind if I joined you?" she asked, instead, hoping he would not be openly hostile.

"Please, do," cried Pippin, with a blithe smile. "We have far too much food, even for us."

Grinning back, Elanor adjusted her skirts and sat down on the floor. The hobbits had spread a thick rug upon the stonework, and a sumptuous picnic was spread before them.

"Have some chicken, Lady, and some pie," Merry said, heaping the goodies upon a plate and thrusting them in her direction.

"Thankyou," as she took the plate. "Would you mind not calling me Lady Elanor, though? Its very formal, and at home my family just calls me Ellie."

"A nice, hobbit-like name, that," put in Bilbo. He was a wizened figure, with a cloud of grey hair and stooped shoulders. His brown eyes twinkled, though she could see the sadness rooted there.

"I suppose it is," Elanor replied. "I would very much like to see the Shire, someday. Could you tell me about it?" This last part she directed at Sam, intending to draw him out.

 _He was very close to Frodo… it's natural for him to mourn him…_

He merely watched her balefully. "I don't think you'd like it—'tisn't grand or magnificent, but full of simple, hard-working folk."

Feeling somewhat stung by this pointed comment, Elanor shrugged. "I come from a place not unlike that, and I think I'd enjoy visiting a lot."

Sam made no reply to that, but his lack of conversation was not missed. Merry and Pippin seemed determined to be cheeky and jolly despite the sadness that lingered amongst the company of hobbits, and she couldn't help but laugh at their antics.

The halflings certainly knew how to eat, and Elanor gladly tucked into pies, cakes, tarts, dishes of roast vegetables, and generous servings of meat. There were also several jugs of mead, and she found that it had an extremely pleasant taste. Merry and Pippin grew boisterous under the effects of the drink, and were soon begging Bilbo for a song.

"A song, lads?" cried the old hobbit. "I believe I shall oblige you!"—for he had had several glasses of mead himself. Clearing his throat, he began:\

 _Eärendil was a mariner_

 _that tarried in Arvernien;_

 _he built a boat of timber felled_

 _in Nimbrethil to journey in;_

 _her sails he wove of silver fair,_

 _of silver were her lanterns made,_

 _her prow was fashioned like a swan,_

 _and light upon her banners laid._

 _In panoply of ancient kings,_

 _in chainéd rings he armoured him;_

 _his shining shield was scored with runes_

 _to ward all wounds and harm from him;_

 _his bow was made of dragon-horn,_

 _his arrows shorn of ebony,_

 _of silver was his habergeon,_

 _his scabbard of chalcedony;_

 _his sword of steel was valiant,_

 _of adamant his helmet tall,_

 _an eagle-plume upon his crest,_

 _upon his breast an emerald._

 _Beneath the Moon and under star_

 _he wandered far from northern strands,_

 _bewildered on enchanted ways_

 _beyond the days of mortal lands._

 _From gnashing of the Narrow Ice_

 _where shadow lies on frozen hills,_

 _from nether heats and burning waste_

 _he turned in haste, and roving still_

 _on starless waters far astray_

 _at last he came to Night of Naught,_

 _and passed, and never sight he saw_

 _of shining shore nor light he sought._

 _The winds of wrath came driving him,_

 _and blindly in the foam he fled_

 _from west to east and errandless,_

 _unheralded he homeward sped._

 _There flying Elwing came to him,_

 _and flame was in the darkness lit;_

 _more bright than light of diamond_

 _the fire upon her carcanet._

 _The Silmaril she bound on him_

 _and crowned him with the living light_

 _and dauntless then with burning brow_

 _he turned his prow; and in the night_

 _from Otherworld beyond the Sea_

 _there strong and free a storm arose,_

 _a wind of power in Tarmenel;_

 _by paths that seldom mortal goes_

 _his boat it bore with biting breath_

 _as might of death across the grey_

 _and long-forsaken seas distressed:_

 _from east to west he passed away._

 _Through Evernight he back was borne_

 _on black and roaring waves that ran_

 _o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores_

 _that drowned before the Days began,_

 _until he heard on strands of pearl_

 _when ends the world the music long,_

 _where ever foaming billows roll_

 _the yellow gold and jewels wan._

 _He saw the Mountain silent rise_

 _where twilight lies upon the knees_

 _of Valinor, and Eldamar_

 _beheld afar beyond the seas._

 _A wanderer escaped from night_

 _to haven white he came at last,_

 _to Elvenhome the green and fair_

 _where keen the air, where pale as glass_

 _beneath the Hill of Ilmarin_

 _a-glimmer in a valley sheer_

 _the lamplit towers of Tirion_

 _are mirrored on the Shadowmere._

 _He tarried there from errantry,_

 _and melodies they taught to him,_

 _and sages old him marvels told,_

 _and harps of gold they brought to him._

 _They clothed him then in elven-white,_

 _and seven lights before him sent,_

 _as through the Calacirian_

 _to hidden land forlorn he went._

 _He came unto the timeless halls_

 _where shining fall the countless years,_

 _and endless reigns theElder King_

 _in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;_

 _and words unheard were spoken then_

 _of folk of Men and Elven-kin,_

 _beyond the world were visions showed_

 _forbid to those that dwell therein._

 _A ship then new they built for him_

 _of mithril and of elven-glass_

 _with shining prow; no shaven oar_

 _nor sail she bore on silver mast:_

 _the Silmaril as lantern light_

 _and banner bright with living flame_

 _to gleam thereon by Elbereth_

 _herself was set, who thither came_

 _and wings immortal made for him,_

 _and laid on him undying doom,_

 _to sail the shoreless skies and come_

 _behind the Sun and light of Moon._

 _From Evereven's lofty hills_

 _where softly silver fountains fall_

 _his wings him bore, a wandering light,_

 _beyond the mighty Mountain Wall._

 _From World's End then he turned away_

 _and yearned again to find afar_

 _his home through shadows journeying,_

 _and burning as an island star_

 _on high above the mists he came,_

 _a distant flame before the Sun,_

 _a wonder ere the waking dawn_

 _where grey the Norland waters run._

 _And over Middle-earth he passed_

 _and heard at last the weeping sore_

 _of women and of elven-maids_

 _in Elder Days, in years of yore._

 _gut on him mighty doom was laid,_

 _till Moon should fade, an orbéd star_

 _to pass, and tarry never more_

 _on Hither Shores where mortals are;_

 _for ever still a herald on_

 _an errand that should never rest_

 _to bear his shining lamp afar,_

 _the Flammifer of Westernesse._

Elanor was spellbound by the chanting verses, and applauded enthusiastically when Bilbo had finished.

"That was beautiful!" she pronounced, sipping some more mead. Her stomach was feeling pleasantly warm, and her cares felt far away.

Bilbo bowed again, several tears on his weathered cheeks. "I am flattered—I had intended to recite it for Frodo, but—"

Elanor's heart wrenched at his words, and she placed a hand over his.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he met her gaze with an understanding nod.

"Another!" bayed Merry, thrusting his tankard carelessly in the air.

But Bilbo could not be persuaded.

"What about you, Sam? Any songs from the Shire to share with us?" Elanor asked, turning to where the sullen hobbit sat. Her smile died away as she realised that Sam had slipped off.

"Never mind him," burped Pippin. "We're all sad about Cousin Frodo. But Sam's mighty protective, and he has a long memory." Leaning over and patting her comfortingly on the shoulder—a peculiar thing coming from a person of 130cm—he belched again. "We don't blame you for it though, Ellie. Mister Frodo would've liked you."

Unsure whether to cry or not, Elanor gave him a playful shove back. "Thanks Pippin."

"Have some more mead," he grinned, his eyes slightly glazed.

 _Is that a good idea?_

Hesitating, she finally took the jug with a shrug and a smile. "That I will."

* * *

Several hours later, Elanor wandered out of the Hall of Fire. It was still fairly early in the evening, about nine o'clock. Her mind buzzed pleasantly, and she felt a little unsteady on her feet. The mead was particularly potent, and she had forgotten how long it had been since she'd had a substantial amount to drink.

 _Should you be wandering around Rivendell drunk, Elanor?_

 _I'm hardly drunk… how many drinks did I have… five? Six? Must be closer to seven… but that's irrelevant!_

She smiled blissfully to herself as she tripped along, eyes blurring a little as she tried to focus on anything.

 _…it's dark in here… and quiet… I wonder where all the people are…_

Her last question was answered as she stumbled round a corner, her fingers brushing the panelled wall. Without warning, her face collided with a broad, firm chest. Losing her balance, she fell backwards awkwardly, and landed hard on her tailbone.

"Ugh," she groaned, letting her head fall back onto the stone floor.

"Lady Elanor!" cried a deep voice, reaching down to her. "Forgive me!" One hand slipped beneath her neck, and the other beneath her waist, pulling her up until she was sitting.

Blinking vaguely, she attempted to bring the face of her rescuer into focus as he crouched before her.

"Boromir," she said at last, smiling stupidly. "It's good to see you!"

He studied her for a moment before replying.

"And you, lady."

Elanor watched, a grin playing at her lips.

 _How did I miss the fact that Boromir is really, really hot?_

The dim light hung mysteriously in the lines of his angular face as he gazed at her. His nose was straight and his jaw was perfectly cut. His grey eyes glistened in the torchlight, full of curiosity—and concern.

 _Now why would he be concerned about me? I'm fine!_ her internal voice giggled.

His face was surprisingly close to hers, and on a sudden impulse she grasped his chin—and planted a kiss on his mouth.

Several sensations hit Elanor all at once. She was acutely aware of the bristles near his mouth, of the shape and taste of his lips, and the fact that, for an instant, he was kissing her back. He reached behind her head, fingers slipping through her hair. Then, gently, he pulled away.

"That was nice," she mumbled.

Wordlessly, Boromir released her and stood. She grinned upwards, holding out her hands for him. He grasped them and drew her to her feet, but released them quickly.

"You should return to your chambers, lady," he said, his voice ice. "You are not fit to be wandering the halls in this state."

And with that, he slipped past her and continued on his way down the corridor.

* * *

 **Da da da DAAAAAA!**

 **There's your first glimpse of romance in this story, though I will leave you with one piece of advice: *NEVER _ASSUME_ * that things that I hint at will actually come to pass... ;)**

 **BUT I felt like you had to have some kind of fun hehe, so I agreed to sacrifice poor Elanor for your sake, and let her get rather drunk (something she has not done since her early days of university... especially not with hobbits!)**

 **Please reserve passing judgement on the Elanor-Boromir situation as yet - I hope you recall that Elanor does, in fact, have a boyfriend. You can't blame her for her actions while she's inebriated!**

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: Your favourite non-canon _Lord of the Rings_ ship? :)**

 **Finwe :D**


	10. Prince Legolas of Mirkwood

**Chapter 10**

 **"Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one'."**

 **(C. S. Lewis)**

* * *

Elanor knotted her hands together as she ambled down a picturesque pathway. The air was crisp and a little cool, but she was quite comfortable in her dress and light woollen wrap. Under one arm was tucked a bundle wrapped in cloth.

Spying an inviting seat built around the bole of a tree, Elanor left the path and sat down gladly. Whilst her cheeks held more colour than previous days, her eyes were bleary and miserable. Closing them gladly, she scolded herself internally: _Elanor Ravenscroft, you're the biggest idiot around._

And, she admitted bleakly, it was all too true.

 _I kissed him. I kissed Boromir. I got drunk, and I kissed a book character. I have a boyfriend, and I kissed a forty-year-old man from a fantasy novel. Oh. My. Goodness. He's almost old enough to be my dad! That's so weird… and I kissed him! Ah!_

She had woken that morning with a throbbing headache and breath tasting of soured mead. It hadn't taken long for the mortifying memory to come back to her.

"You're a complete _fool_ ," she moaned, dropping the book beside her on the seat and cradling her head in her hands. She could not dispel the impression of the dim corridor, the torchlight on Boromir's face, the taste of his lips… and the stinging rejection as he quietly detached himself and left her sitting gracelessly upon the floor. Filled with guilt and disgust, she had cried and berated herself over and over.

 _...what would Tim think?! Oh gosh, how could I be so revolting? What a stupid, idiotic, unfaithful thing to do… why should I be upset that Boromir pushed me away? Thank gosh he did… at least he saved me some humiliation… and how am I supposed to tell Tim?!_

Much to her relief, Indilwen had knocked on her door fairly soon after she woke, bringing a tray of breakfast and wearing an amused smirk. Clearly someone had tipped her off about Elanor's imminent hangover. Despite wanting to shake the cheeky Elf-woman, she did feel better after a bowl of flavoursome porridge and a glass of juice.

After Indilwen left, Elanor had risen, doused her face in cold water and dressed.

Her first instinct was to find Boromir immediately and apologise for her stupidity, but the more she thought of the tall, stern figure, the more frightened she became at the idea of seeing him. She had had ample time to study his character while they travelled together, and somehow that made her breach of propriety even more abhorrent. Boromir was chivalrous; he was a stickler for correctness, respectability, and decorum— _kind of like a medieval Mr Darcy_. He had not touched her aside from offering her a hand if their path was difficult—and the one time where he had allowed her to cry into his cloak like a tiny child. Every aspect of her foolish behaviour the previous night would shock and repulse him. The thought of losing the friendship of the person who had helped her get back to civilisation was painful. She longed for home, and somehow he had gotten her through the terrifying three weeks on the road.

 _And now you've gone and stuffed it up, and made him hate you. He'll think you're a common whore, and never speak to you again…_

Unable to face the thought of confronting him, she had wrapped up Georgia's copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ , and crept outside. The gardens of Rivendell were enormous, and her odds of running into Boromir outdoors were significantly lower than in the winding corridors.

 _This is why you shouldn't ever have more than one drink!_

Attempting to divert herself, she glanced about before unwrapping the book and settling back comfortably against the tree trunk. The hobbits had just reached Bree, and were, she vaguely remembered, about to encounter Aragorn.

Strider had always been a favourite of Elanor's. He had embodied the underdog, the hard-done-by-good-guy who fought against the odds, rallied the people, became King, and got the girl—it was the ultimate fairytale. While she knew that _The Lord of the Rings_ was really about Frodo and destroying the Ring, she wished she'd seen more of Lord Aragorn.

 _And now you've been handed the opportunity to interact one-on-one with some of your preferred characters from the book… and you're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself because you're homesick and made a fool of yourself? Come on Elanor!_

 _…Elrond said he couldn't get me home… as if it wasn't possible… I'm going to be stuck here forever!_

 _You don't know that. Gandalf may be able to help you—you never really asked him, you know._

 _But Elrond would know if Gandalf could magically transport me, wouldn't he?_

 _Maybe not… and if you_ are _stuck here, do you want to be that whiney, useless girl that sits around moping and only thinks of herself?_

 _Does anyone actually_ want _to be that person?_

 _You tell me!_

Elanor sighed and put the book down, unable to concentrate on the hobbits with the mental battle between her internal grandmother and the lonely, homesick girl.

How could she simply forget her old life and embrace this one? Tim was there; thoughtful, loving, gorgeous, child-hood sweetheart Tim. The thought of never seeing him or her family again caused her chest to physically ache.

 _Oh gosh, what am I gonna do?_

 _Sometimes you just have to do the best with what you have-and survive._

* * *

Legolas breathed deeply, savouring—it was fresh and wholesome, and tingled with enchantment. He had missed the sights and sounds of other Elves as he journeyed from his home in Northern Mirkwood. Though he was a Silvan Elf, and most here were of the Noldor, he felt a strong sense of kinship to the people of Imladris. Lord Elrond's house was filled with light and laughter despite the great storm which loomed over Middle Earth. It was pleasant to forget the ominous clouds for a time.

Flexing his shoulders, he strode across a grassy lawn. He had discarded his robes, and wore only a long shirt and breeches. His bow was fastened across his back, and he carried two scabbarded knives in his left hand.

Lord Erestor had informed him that he might practice his archery and knife-throwing on a field to the south of the house. He longed to hear his bow sing again, and watch with satisfaction as the arrows thudded into the target.

Passing round a large, blooming shrub, Legolas spied a magnificent oak tree. Pausing, he looked up at it admiringly.

 _It's beauty would rival that of the Greenwood's greatest giants_ , he thought, blue eyes alight with wonder.

Still enraptured, he moved toward the tree. Someone had constructed a comfortable seat around it's trunk. Making up his mind to pace out it's girth, he started around to the right. After a few steps, however, he caught sight of a cerulean skirt draped across the bench. Not wanting to startle the wearer of the garment, he peered cautiously around the trunk.

Lady Elanor was sitting with her back pressed up against the rough bark. She was clad in a dress as blue as the sky, and upon her propped-up knees rested a book.

Retreating soundlessly, he moved half a dozen feet away from the trunk and circled back to meet the woman.

"Lady Elanor!" he cried, as she came into view once more. "I see now that I am not the only one enamoured by this glorious tree!"

Elanor appeared disconcerted by his sudden appearance, but her face broke into a broad smile after a moment. Hurriedly placing her book beneath a piece of cloth, she rose.

"Legolas! It's excellent to see you as well," she replied, moving towards him.

About three feet from him, she hesitated.

"I'm afraid I don't have any idea how Elves would greet one another," she said somewhat shyly.

Legolas chuckled. "Then I must teach you!"

Elanor looked extremely gratified at this, and her soft green eyes sparkled. "What do I do?"

"There are many ways one may greet another, dependent upon situation and rank. However, if one were to greet a new friend, one would clasp hands, like this—yes, very good—and, keeping eye contact, incline one's head. Excellent," he beamed. "Of course, for strangers or acquaintances, one merely nods."

"I see," she said, laughing lightheartedly. "I suppose it's no more complicated than the way we greet one another at home, but I wouldn't have any idea where to start with Elvish culture," she admitted. "We mostly just shake hands or hug!"

"Elves also embrace one another, but it is a sign of deep friendship or affection," Legolas replied.

"Then it is not as different as I supposed."

"Perhaps not," he smiled. Picking up his pair of knives, he turned to her once again. "I am bound for the practice field; you evidently have a book of some interest, but perhaps you would like to join me?"

"Oh, that'd be lovely," came her fervent response. "I couldn't concentrate on it anyway. I'll just be a moment!"

Hurrying back to the tree, she wrapped her book in cloth and draped a beautiful shawl of russet red over her shoulders.

As they walked southwards, they fell into easy conversation.

"What was it that you were reading, Lady Elanor?"

Flushing a little, she shrugged. "Nothing of consequence; just a history of Middle Earth. I thought I ought to learn more about it, seeing as I am to stay here for a time."

Silence fell for a moment before Legolas spoke again.

"Do you wield any weapons yourself?"

"Me?" she replied, with a disbelieving laugh. "None, I'm afraid."

Legolas looked down at her, frowning in puzzlement. "Is it not a skill that is taught in your land?"

"Oh, yes—well, no. I mean, we have an army, but not every man—or woman—learns archery, or knife throwing. Only those who fight have to, and as we are on an island, we don't need a very large standing military."

"That is certainly true," he nodded. "I believe you will find here, however, that almost all are at least mildly proficient; Elves are stronger and swifter than the race of Men—and we have far longer to hone our abilities."

Elanor laughed at that, recalling their conversation of the previous day. "Yes, you can't expect us to learn as much in our short lifetimes."

His lip quirked. "Perhaps not."

* * *

It was not long before they arrived at an open stretch of grass. At the far end—over a hundred metres away—were half a dozen minuscule targets. Elanor squinted a little, trying to guess the exact distance between, but soon gave up.

Legolas had pulled his bow from his back and was busy stringing it. He was slimmer and leaner than either Aragorn or Boromir—that thought caused her to blush a little—and his body was finely sculpted. He was probably a few centimetres shorter than Boromir, too, standing about 20cm taller than her 1.7m frame.

 _A lot taller than Orlando Bloom!_

"Are you going to shoot from here?" she asked quizzically, watching as he plucked an arrow from his quiver and drew his bow.

Raising one dark eyebrow, he sighted and released. Though it was hard to see from her present position, it appeared to Elanor as if the arrow thudded into the very centre of the target.

 _…oh man he's good…_

Gathering his long, dark hair and brushing it over one shoulder, Legolas proceeded to empty his quiver. Elanor watched him, enthralled. His level skill and precision was impeccable. She had seen many excellent archers at the medieval festival over the years, and this careless blue-eyed Elf outstripped them all with uncanny ease.

"Shall we go fetch them?" he asked, as the last arrow reached it's destination.

"You're amazing," Elanor laughed, rising from where she was sitting upon the luxuriant grass.

She watched as his face twisted in genuine confusion. "It is an expected skill, Lady Elanor—Thoron, my brother, is far my better."

 _He hasn't got even an ounce of pride… wait… Legolas has a brother?!_

"Is your brother older or younger than you?" Elanor inquired, thoroughly intrigued. _I never considered he might have had siblings!_

"He is my elder, and my father's heir."

Elanor had to scamper a little to keep up with Legolas's long, easy strides.

"Is that why you were sent to see Lord Elrond, instead of him?"

"Indeed," he nodded, smiling. "I have often been used as his emissary. Tell me, Lady, have you any siblings?"

A throb of homesickness struck Elanor in the belly like an unexpected blow from behind.

"I have—one sister," she managed. Swallowing hard, she wrapped her shawl tighter around her body, as if somehow it would hold all her pieces together. "Georgia."

"That is a strange name—though undoubtedly unremarkable in your land," Legolas mused, reaching the first of the targets and plucking his arrows carefully from them. "What is the name of your homeland, Lady Elanor?"

 _Oh gosh Georgia, I miss you!_

"Australia," she murmured, somewhat absently.

"Another strange title," he proclaimed.

Elanor forced a small laugh. "It is, at that."

"Do you know what it means?"

"I believe it means 'southern', or something similar," Elanor told him, wracking her brains for her high school history knowledge. "We are from far to the south."

"Then it must be a peculiar tongue, for those from the south we call the Haradrim. Is it the same land?" he inquired.

"No, definitely not."

"I see."

Moving to the next target, Legolas repeated the process. Elanor noticed he had landed one arrow directly in the centre, and four others in the shape of a perfect _x_ around the perimeter of the circle.

"You're extremely good," she told him again, wishing heartily that she'd possessed Georgia's knack for such things. Her sister could throw knives and fend off most grown men with her staff in hand— _the staff that you lost somewhere in the wilds of Middle Earth!_

"Do you desire to learn?" Legolas asked, noticing the longing in her voice.

"I don't think I'd be able to—I did try, a little. My sister Georgia was always far better than me."

He grinned at her, and his blue eyes were startlingly bright. "If you wish it, I shall not tell her that you are to be my student."

"Hey!" Elanor cried, in mock indignation. "I wasn't _that_ bad! But now that you say it, I think I would like to learn something." Surveying her skinny arms, she sighed. "I was quite fit and strong, but three weeks of not enough food ruined everything. I really ought to do some kind of exercise, to get it all back again."

"You shall regain your strength ere long, Lady Elanor," he assured her, smilingly. "Come—shall I show you how to wield knives?"

Feeling a surge of affection for the lighthearted Elf, Elanor nodded. "That would be lovely."

* * *

 **I thought you all might like to see a little more of book-Legolas-with-my-spin-on-him. :) I always thought that Legolas would have a brother, because it seemed crazy to send one's heir on a messenger job. (Though Thranduil does ride an elk thing... so idk.) Anyway, let me know what you think of Thoron and his inclusion (the name literally means "eagle".)**

 **Anyways, after Elanor's horrendous gaffe the night before, I figured she deserved to have some fun with a friend. Legolas doesn't berate her for her ginormous silly!**

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: if you could ship Elanor with any character from _The Lord of the Rings_ , who would it be and why? :P**

 **Hope you all liked it anyhow!**

 **Finwe :3**


	11. You have my love, ada

**Chapter 11**

 **She is here at last!**

* * *

Elanor closed the book with a gentle _thud_.

She was finally finished.

It had taken her just over a week to complete _The Lord of the Rings_ , and almost twice that time to labour through _The Silmarillion_.

Her expression was wistful as she gently leafed through the pages, noting Georgia's pencilled notes at various points.

 _Now can you see why she liked it so much?_

 _…yes_ , she was forced to admit. Whilst partly driven by the necessity to get up-to-speed with the Fellowship's endeavours, Elanor could not deny she had greatly enjoyed reliving the events of Tolkien's novels—for the most part.

Putting the book down, she sighed and stretched. It was late afternoon, by the angle of the pale sun. Lord Elrond was expecting her to dine with him that evening, and she knew she ought to be readying a bath and choosing something to wear. Instead, she moved to the open French doors and leaned against the railing. Somehow, mid-November had arrived, and the previous three weeks had passed with uncanny swiftness.

Elanor had been busy—and, she realised, rather content. Her days were spent sparring with Legolas, dabbling in whatever style of fighting happened to interest her, and in the company of the hobbits, Gimli, and a number of the Elves. Evenings were pleasant and cheery, with many a night slipping by in conversation with Lord Elrond on the laws and customs of Middle Earth. Being one blessed with an interest in learning, Elanor was entranced by the great mine of information that opened up beneath her feet. Elrond was a great scholar, and between him, Gandalf, and hasty readings of Tolkien's literature, she found she was beginning to appreciate the magnificence of this fantasy world.

And therein lay her problem.

 _A heck of a lot of these people are going to die._

How could she conceal from Gandalf that he would have to go through the horror of the battle with the Balrog?

How could she not warn Aragorn that Halbarad of the Dúnedain would die for their cause?

How could she look Boromir in the eye—mortifying kiss situation aside—when she knew he was going to take the Ring and perish at the hands of merciless orcs?

 _How much of this can I prevent, and how much of this do I have to leave as it is?_

 _Let's be real, though—you haven't looked Boromir in the eye anyway, much less spoken to him since you made an idiot of yourself that night…_

 _That's true… but it doesn't help me figure out what I'm supposed to be doing here! I obviously have something I'm meant to fix, or change, or help—Elrond hinted at it. I just don't know what, and I hate the idea of innocent people dying because I knowingly let the story unfold._

 _Innocent people are going to die anyway—these people are preparing for war._

Elanor sighed heavily. That was true enough. Many scouts—amongst them Aragorn and Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir—had departed immediately after the Council. She knew that they should not return until December by the book timeline, but she was beginning to worry. Whilst Gandalf, Elrond and Glorfindel knew of her peculiar origins, there had been little opportunity to discuss it of late. There were almost always others present as they sat around the fire, and Elanor hoped fervently that tonight they would be alone.

Rousing herself, she left the balcony. Over the past weeks, Indilwen had continued to supply her with a steady stream of new attire. The Elvish style of dress generally ran towards wide necklines and waistless bodices, which flowed becomingly down her slender form. The sleeves drooped to varied degrees, and the overall effect was very pleasant. However, she found—to her own surprise—that she much preferred the practical shirts, tunics and breeches which she donned to spar with Legolas. They had high collars and were far less cumbersome than the mile-long sleeves.

Sifting through her growing wardrobe, Elanor selected a sapphire blue gown with silver beading about the neck and sleeves.

 _At least they won't drag in your food too much._

Grinning at herself, she draped it carefully across a chair and began to prepare her bath.

* * *

The House of Elrond was very quiet as Boromir trod its corridors. He could hear no sound save his own footsteps, and wished heartily—not for the first time—that Faramir were by his side. He longed for his brother's companionship, lacking the cheerful banter and easy charm that came so naturally to him.

He tugged irritably upon one sleeve. The hunter-green tunic was small for his mighty frame, and he longed for the looser cuts of the Gondorian surcoats. The Elves were slighter than Men, and this particular tunic was too narrow across the shoulders.

He took several more turnings before pausing before a door. Hoping he had remembered his destination correctly, he breathed deeply before rapping upon the wood. Half a moment later, golden firelight slipped out as it opened.

The sight of Lord Elrond never failed to inspire awe in Boromir, despite his own rank in Gondor. The mighty Elf stood several inches taller than himself, and carried an indisputable air of command. He was dressed in a fine surcoat of moonbeam silver, over which were a set of deep azure robes. Upon his dark hair rested an elegant circlet, and his eyes gleamed in the warm light.

"Lord Elrond," Boromir said, bowing courteously.

Elrond returned the gesture with a pleasant smile. "Boromir. Please, come—we are to dine shortly."

Nodding his thanks, Boromir stepped inside. Lord Elrond's study was at once both spacious and cosy. It was an L-shaped room, lined with books, maps and paintings. At one end was a dining table, lit by flickering candles, and at the other was a comfortable sitting area.

Elrond gestured for Boromir to move to the armchairs, which he did gladly. There were several others present; Gandalf was frowning pensively over a long-stemmed pipe, whilst Glorfindel was engaged in merry conversation with a young, golden-haired woman—Lady Elanor.

Three weeks had wrought much change upon the thin, frightened girl he had discovered in the wilderness. Her face was no longer drawn and haggard, but rounder and fuller. She had ceased to look like a frightened child, but instead a composed, refined woman.

 _And yet she is forward and uncouth!_

Shaking himself a little, Boromir sat down and turned to Lord Elrond. The raven-haired Elf poured a goblet of wine and passed it to him.

"My thanks, Lord Elrond."

"And mine, for joining us, Boromir son of Denethor. Busy are my days of late, and little time do I have for pleasure. Long years have passed since last I ate with a man of Gondor," he smiled.

"Indeed; it is not often we journey north, though the hospitality of the House of Elrond is exceedingly great."

"It gladdens me to hear it," Elrond laughed, taking a sip from his goblet.

Silence fell for a moment as Boromir savoured the Elvish wine, thinking hard.

 _Lady Elanor is evidently a woman of some rank and intelligence, for Lord Elrond would not permit her to be present otherwise… and yet, no such woman would drink to excess, and behave so…_

 _She was much distraught when you found her, and has borne great strain…_

 _That is no excuse!_

Stealing a glance in her direction, Boromir studied her briefly. She was bent over a book with Lord Glorfindel, reading hesitatingly as if she were a child doing lessons. She appeared to make a mistake, for the pair broke out into clear laughter, and her gaze moved upwards and met his.

Her face froze for an instant, before breaking into a tentative smile. Boromir glanced hurriedly away. He was profoundly grateful when four Elves entered bearing trays of food, and Lord Elrond suggested that they move to the table.

* * *

Elanor felt her heart sink in her chest the moment Boromir entered the room.

His almost-black hair was neatly combed and barely brushed his powerful shoulders. He exchanged civilities with Lord Elrond before joining the group sitting by the fire.

"You must take heed, Lady Elanor, or you shall never learn," came Glorfindel's voice from her right shoulder. The Elf smiled at her, his finely-chiseled and handsome face full of merriment.

Elanor laughed, turning back to him. "You have had much longer to practice reading in Sindarin than I have, my Lord. And anyway, I know three languages already—its not my fault that none in Arda speak French or German."

Laughing in his turn, Glorfindel gestured once more at the top of the page. He had challenged Elanor to translate _The Lay of Leithian_ into Sindarin from the Common Tongue, and she was labouring over it slowly. Whilst she was picking up Elvish swiftly enough, the poem was verbose and beautiful, and very often she mistranslated the elegant phrases horribly.

After reading "bondage" as "bird", they both burst into laughter.

Glancing towards where the other three men sat, Elanor met Boromir's steely eyes. Her heart thudded apprehensively.

 _Does he hate me? Should I say something? Oh gosh, what do I do?_

Her palms were beginning to sweat. Smiling hesitatingly, she watched him. He stared back for half a moment more before glancing back to Lord Elrond.

 _Yep, he definitely hates you._

At that moment, four Elves—Indilwen among them—entered the room.

"Come, Lady Elanor—now is the time for feasting and enjoyment, and not for study," Glorfindel cried, standing. He offered her a hand and she gladly stood, desperate to escape Boromir's gaze.

Never had she been more grateful for the golden-haired Elf's civilities at that moment. He was a perfect gentleman, offering her his arm and seeing her to her chair before taking his own.

Lord Elrond occupied the head of the table as was his custom, with Boromir on his left and Elanor on his right. She was somewhat disconcerted to be facing the stern, lordly figure, and glad for Glorfindel's presence at her side.

Lord Elrond helped himself to a flavoursome-looking casserole before passing it to Elanor.

"I trust you found plenty to occupy yourself with today, Elanor?" he asked, smiling. Her heart warmed at his casual familiarity with her first name.

"I have an overabundance of enjoyable activities," Elanor replied, wondering whether to give the dish to Glorfindel or Boromir. Setting her teeth, she proffered it across the table. Boromir took it carefully, avoiding both her fingers and her gaze.

"That is well. And yourself, Lord Boromir?"

"Far be it from me to name any lack in the House of Elrond, for I have found none."

 _He's so… polite. All the time._

"At any rate, it is rude to mention such things before one's host," put in Gandalf, speaking for the first time. Elanor hid a grin as she took a mouthful of the casserole. As usual, it was mouthwateringly delicious.

 _I definitely need to get this recipe to give to Mum… if I ever see her again…_

"Is there aught news of the scouts, Lord Elrond?" Boromir asked, handing the serving dish to the wizard.

"None as yet, I am afraid. There is much ground they must cover, and the land is wild and unsafe. I know little of their specific errands, save that Lord Aragorn has led a company south to Tharbad, in search of the Black Riders."

"A wild country, and a savage one," said the man, shaking his head. "The crossing at Tharbad is perilous."

"I do not doubt it, for the Greyflood runs swift, and it has been many a year since the city was abandoned," Glorfindel said. "Winter shall arrive before the scouts, I fear."

Boromir looked somewhat displeased by this; but then, Elanor thought his brow seemed perpetually furrowed these days.

After a moment's silence, the man of Gondor spoke again: "I could not help but notice Lord Glorfindel was aiding you in some form of study, _Lady_ Elanor." Her title held a certain degree of bitterness, and Elanor felt herself prickle at his tone. "If I may ask, what is it you desire to learn?"

"I was reading," she responded, trying to keep herself from snapping. She wished she could let loose her tongue, but knew that she would swiftly relapse into the phrases and colloquialisms of contemporary Australia. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Boromir's face registered a flicker of smugness at this. "What tale do you peruse?"

" _The Lay of Leithian_ ," Glorfindel supplied. "Lady Elanor was translating it from the Common Tongue to Sindarin, for my pleasure."

 _Yeah! That's right! I'm not an uneducated little girl, so stick that up your—_

"You are a scholar, Lady Elanor?" came the somewhat-caustic reply, interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes," she said tartly. "I have spent the last three years studying history and diplomacy at university. Before I travelled here, of course." Unable to resist, she added, "I also have a good understanding of chemistry, physics and mathematics."

 _High school counts, right?_

"Chemistry?"

"It appears to be a more advanced form of alchemy," Lord Elrond explained in a measured tone.

Elanor glanced up from her plate, meeting Boromir's eyes squarely. She knew his character well enough; he was kind-hearted, but also proud. She still kicked herself for being so foolish that night, but resented his aloofness nonetheless.

As she watched him, his eyes seemed to soften a little, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"You would greatly enjoy the libraries in Minas Tirith, I believe," he said finally.

Breathing a sigh of profound relief, Elanor smiled. "They must be great indeed, if they are more extensive than Lord Elrond's."

Boromir shrugged, and Elanor realised that he would concede no more at present. It was progress, however, and it loosened the tension that had been present in her chest since she had kissed him.

Smiling as Glorfindel began an amusing tale, Elanor continued to eat her stew.

* * *

In the early afternoon of the following day, a gentle breeze drifted through the valley of Imladris. The Last Homely House was quiet, for many walked outdoors and revelled in the meagre warmth of the sun. Few days of light and beauty were left before the coming of winter, Elrond realised, as he bent thoughtfully over a document. His quick mind whirred like a set of intricate cogs as he mused on the information contained therein. It was written in neat, looping script, utterly unlike Tengwar runes, though it bore a similarity to the alphabet that the hobbits used.

Running a finger along his jaw, the tall Elf frowned a little.

The elegantly-carved desk upon which the parchment rested was bathed in the pale afternoon light. The balcony was overgrown with vines and scarcely ten feet long, but it overlooked a secluded part of the garden and Elrond dearly loved its solitude.

Few knew how to gain entrance to the tiny haven, for it's doorway was cleverly concealed in his study. Thus, when he heard the creak of hinges, he had whittled the possible newcomers down to four.

"Adar."

Turning, Elrond's face broke into a delighted smile.

"Arwen."

The tall, graceful woman stepped through the entrance. Her midnight hair was pinned back from her face and rippled bewitchingly down her back. She was clad in soft white, and to Elrond there was nothing fairer to behold.

The two Elves moved close, clasping hands and pressing foreheads together.

"You are troubled," she told him, as they stepped apart reluctantly. Elrond maintained his hold on her slim hand.

"Events move apace, iell. Heavy is my heart, and yet glad also."

Arwen looked up at him searchingly. He grey eyes were clear and starry, and full of compassionate concern.

"Ada," she said, almost pleadingly.

Elrond reached up and brushed her cheek with his fingers.

"There are many questions that must be answered, muin."

She was silent for a moment, before she spoke: "Do not lament, father, for there is hope in my heart."

"Long have you had _hope_ , daughter, for things which should not be." He released her and turned away, staring out at the gardens as he schooled his features. His mind wandered, recalling the face of one just come to manhood…

* * *

 _"Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Lord of the Dunedain, listen to me! A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you. You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it."_

 _The young man's face was troubled. "Can it be that my mother has spoken of_

 _this?"_

 _"No indeed," said Elrond. "Your own eyes have betrayed you. But I do not speak of my daughter alone. You shall be betrothed to no man's child as yet. But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lórien, Evenstar of her people, she is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And so, I think, it may well seem to her. But even if it were not so, and her heart turned towards you, I should still be grieved because of the doom that is laid on us."_

 _"What is that doom?" said Aragorn._

 _"That so long as I abide here, she shall live with the youth of the Eldar," answered Elrond, "and when I depart, she shall go with the, if she so chooses."_

 _"I see," said Aragorn, "that I have turned my eyes to a treasure no less dear than the treasure of Thingol that Beren once desired. Such is my fate." Then suddenly the foresight of his kindred came to him, and he said: "But lo! Master Elrond, the years of your abiding run short at last, and the choice must soon be laid on your children, to part either with you or with Middle-earth."_

 _"Truly," said Elrond. "Soon, as we account it, though many years of Men must still pass. But there will be no choice before Arwen, my beloved, unless you, Aragorn, Arathorn's son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world. Yon do not know yet what you desire of me." He sighed, and after a while, looking gravely upon the young man, he said again: "The years will bring what they will. We will speak no more of this until many have days darken, and much evil is to come."_

* * *

The scene changed…

* * *

 _A tall and mighty man stood before him, grown to his full stature. His face was grim and stern, save when he smiled._

 _"My son, years come when hope will fade, and beyond them little is clear to the. And now a shadow lies between us. Maybe, it has been appointed so, that by my loss the kingship of Men may be restored. Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life's grace lot less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. To the men even our victory can bring only sorrow and parting – but to you hope of joy for a while. For a while. Alas, my son! I fear that to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending."_

* * *

"…and so it is," he murmured.

"Ada?"

Smiling wearily, Elrond turned back to his daughter. "I fear for what is to come, beloved, for the doom of many shall soon be decided."

Arwen's countenance was filled with pity and with longing at this, and she drew close to him once more. Gently, he grasped her shoulders and placed a kiss upon her forehead.

"Time passes, daughter; I fear that sorrow shall come. We must not dwell upon it, however."

She smiled at him, and in her face was deep affection. "You have my love, ada."

* * *

 **Hey team!**

 **Sorry about the big gap between Chapters 10 and 11. Had a bit of an influx of university work and took me a while to reread this and check it was good to go.**

 **The parts in italics in this chapter are taken directly from the appendices of The Lord of the Rings, and full credit goes to the mighty Tolkien for these ones (especially as they are written with infinitely more elegance than mine!)**

 **Let me know what you think, leave reviews; constructive is good! :D**

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: Do you think Arwen made the right choice to marry Aragorn? Or should she have gone to Valinor with her father? :)**

 **Chapter 12 should come soon. :)**

 **Finwe**


	12. Iell

**Chapter 12 - Iell**

* * *

Elanor snorted in frustration and tossed her head. Her golden curls refused to stay put as the breeze tickled her hair, despite tucking it firmly behind her ears.

"Geez," she muttered, letting the tip of her sword drop to the grass. "Hold on a moment, Legolas."

The lithe Elf halted mid-stride and surveyed her with a smirk of amusement from several metres away. "Your hair has grown, mellon."

"It generally does that," Elanor replied sarcastically, grasping it all together with her hands and staring at him balefully. Legolas rested lightly upon the grass, his long form poised for action regardless of her cry for a respite.

"Does it?" he asked, sounding surprised.

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"A peculiarity of the race of men."

"I'm not a man!" cried Elanor. "All hair grows, even yours!"

Legolas laughed merrily. "Indeed it does not, Elanor, for my hair has remained unaltered since I came to adulthood."

Elanor drove her sword into the turf to free her hands, scarcely noticing the flicker of disapproval on Legolas's face.

"Your hair just stops growing?"

"Yea, lady. It reaches what length one desires and ceases. Your sword-"

"So you… imagine your hair that length? Or wish it? And then it grows to that length precisely?"

Legolas shrugged a little as he surveyed one of his brown locks, realising she would pay no heed to his warnings about placing a sword into the ground. His hair hung down to his belt, and was held back from his face by an intricate braid along each side of his head.

 _Rather like movie-Legolas…_

"One's form is under the influence of one's mind."

"Hmm."

"Does your hair grow all the time? No matter what you want?" he asked, with childlike curiosity.

"Yes. I had a haircut just before I came here." Elanor frowned as she plucked at the end of one of the strands. "It's growing remarkably fast, though. I feel rather out of place with such short hair; even men grow theirs long in this land."

Legolas grinned. "Perhaps you have influenced it's growth yourself."

"Not likely," she responded, with a quirked eyebrow. "Do you have something I might tie it up with?"

The Elf reached into several pockets of his tunic before producing a thin strip of leather. Elanor received it with a smile and swiftly fastened her curls into a short ponytail about two inches long.

"Shall we continue?" she said, withdrawing her sword from the grass.

"With pleasure," Legolas smiled, retreating several metres and taking up his stance.

It had not ceased to amaze Elanor how cheerful and unruffled he remained even during sparring. She posed no challenge to the experienced Elf, and his careless demeanour certainly didn't boost her confidence skills.

Switching her sword to her left hand, Elanor advanced. Her right side was slightly stronger and more coordinated, but she enjoyed the feeling of weariness which came from sparring with both arms.

Legolas moved at an even pace, slowing his movements so she could keep up. Elanor swung at him several times, her blows raining from left and right. He was "tireless and swift", just as Tolkien had described him, parrying her blows with ease. He allowed her to continue for several minutes until her breaths became laboured. Then with contemptuous ease, he disarmed her.

"You know," he said, with a playful smile, "you would improve much swifter if you did not attempt to master the sword with both hands. The Eldar learn as you do, but it takes time; time which mortals do not have."

Elanor laughed, lifting up both arms and surveying the lean, knotted muscles forming upon them. "I know, but I'd rather not have one strong arm and one weak arm from using my sword right-handed all the time. Besides, I don't plan to ever actually fight."

"That is wise, for you would surely lose to any save the most dimwitted goblin," Legolas said, moving to retrieve her sword.

Elanor rose up in indignation, readying herself to protest. Legolas' blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he passed her the hilt of her slender blade.

"Yes, my lady?" he teased, bowing.

"I think I will cease there," she managed, unable to remain cross in the face of his unwavering good humour. "Besides, I was unable to speak with Lord Elrond as I must last night, and planned to seek him out this afternoon."

Legolas inclined his head once more. "As you wish. I shall practice with my bow for a time. Shall we continue tomorrow?"

"Oh, yes," Elanor nodded. "Perhaps we could go riding."

"You improve in that field swiftly," he smiled. "That is a good notion."

Elanor sheathed her sword, feeling a peculiar sense of pride that she was at least moderately capable on horseback. Perhaps if— _when—_ she returned home she'd finally be able to best Georgia.

"I will meet you on the terrace at the eleventh hour," she said, surprised at how easily the peculiar telling of the time slipped off her tongue.

"I will be there."

Grinning at the Elf, Elanor gave him a friendly wave and turned back towards the house. One hand rested comfortably on the hilt of her sword. It was a light, slim blade, a gift from Lord Elrond a week before. Elanor treated it like a new toy, and was almost disappointed that the perfectly-tempered metal needed little maintenance. It reminded her somewhat of movie-Sting, though it was longer and straighter. It had an elegant cross guard and a hand-and-a-half hilt made of polished wood. She had been wracking her brains for an appropriate name for the beautiful gift, but couldn't find one to do it justice.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, Elanor entered Imladris by a back hallway. A pair Elves were moving swanlike down the corridor. Smiling, they halted in front of her and bowed. Elanor returned the gesture, pleased that Lord Elrond's lessons in etiquette had paid off.

"Indilwen has prepared a bath in your room, Lady Elanor," said one, in Sindarin.

"Thankyou," Elanor replied in the same tongue, fervently hoping she had understood the woman correctly. Her thanks must have been considered sufficient, for both Elves broke into smiles once more, bowed, and continued on their way.

Pleased at the idea of a bath before seeking out Elrond, Elanor hurried back to her chambers. She had been in Imladris for almost a month, and was becoming comfortably familiar with the beautiful Elvish house.

 _A whole month! A whole month without Tim, without Mum and Dad and Georgia… without my friends… goodness, what would Rita and Amelia and Amanda say if they could see me now!_

She glanced wistfully down at her attire; a soft grey tunic which reached her mid-thigh, a pair of black breeches, supple leather boots, and a sword belt.

 _And the sleeves on this one are relatively normal! Imagine if they saw your droopy sleeves!_

Absentmindedly traversing the path to her bedroom, Elanor's earlier good humour faded.

 _I miss them. I miss them a lot. This is lovely—lovelier than I could have imagined! But I've been away for… what is it… nearly two months?_

Nearly two months.

Two months since she'd appeared on that horrible, desolate hillside in what she now knew was Cardolan, north of Eriador.

 _Two months._

Nearly two months since she'd stumbled upon Boromir; grim and weatherbeaten, and yet a sight that had filled her with profound relief.

 _The man you kissed!_

 _Hey! We're sorting that out. Cool it!_

Three weeks of walking; the thought of travelling anywhere else in Middle Earth filled her with dread. The days had been prolonged and hopeless. Only the fact that she had nowhere else to turn had kept her going; reaching Rivendell had seemed an impossibility as she had trudged through hills and plains.

 _Maybe I'll just stay in Rivendell forever…_

 _You're going to get home, Elanor Ravenscroft! You're going to get home, and see Tim, and go back to uni…_

 _…and what if I don't?_

The question rang through her mind, echoing painfully as it rumbled through her consciousness.

 _…then dammit, I'll make a name for myself here._

* * *

Elanor was pleased to discover that her understanding of Sindarin was not completely groundless—Indilwen had indeed prepared her a bath. Attempting to shake off the morbid thoughts that troubled her, she stripped down to the skin and climbed into the fragrant water.

As she ducked underneath the surface, she realised that Legolas was right—her hair was growing, for now it brushed her shoulders. Pleased that she would be able to tie it up and braid it, Elanor hurried through her ablutions and picked out a clean tunic and leggings. This one was less utilitarian than her sparring attire—though it's sleeves were mercifully fitted—and made of the softest green wool. It was not as fine or elegant as any of her gowns, but it hugged her form becomingly as she fastened a belt about her waist.

Feeling fresh and suitably dressed for the afternoon, Elanor tugged on a pair of boots, grasped a carefully wrapped bundle, and set out in search of Lord Elrond.

His study being the most obvious place, Elanor directed her steps there. As she passed wide archways looking out upon the gardens, she noted that many Elves walked barefoot upon the grass. It was chilly—it felt like around fifteen degrees Celcius—but the Elvenfolk seemed remarkably resilient.

Turning left down a corridor, Elanor approached Elrond's study door and knocked gently. Hearing no sound from within, she cautiously tried the handle. It was unlocked.

On more than one occasion, Elrond had allowed her to relax in the study alone, so she had few qualms about entering. The room was utterly still and quiet save for the cheerful crackling of the open fire. It was panelled in a darker wood than Elanor's bedchamber, and the furniture was both elegant and inviting. Many embroidered cushions lay scattered about, and she spied Elrond's particular favourite resting in his armchair.

Smiling a little, Elanor padded forward and picked up the cushion. It was a deep crimson, embroidered with many flowers in a fine silver thread.

"I see you have found my mother's cushion."

Elanor nearly dropped the cushion on the floor in alarm. Jumping half out of her skin, she watched as a beautiful black-haired woman entered the room. A portrait of a silver-haired Elf had swung away from the wall, concealing a doorway. The newcomer pushed the portrait back into place before standing upright.

"Lady Arwen," Elanor stammered, hurriedly replacing Elrond's cushion and bowing low. "Forgive me for my presence; I was searching for Lord Elrond."

Arwen merely smiled and moved towards her, reaching over the back of the armchair to retrieve the cushion. "My mother was excellent at embroidery. This cushion was the last she made ere her return to Valinor." The Elf met her gaze evenly.

Elanor swallowed hard. Arwen was equal in stature to herself, but Elanor felt distinctly uncomfortable under her fathomless grey gaze. Arwen Undómiel was breathtakingly gorgeous, and more graceful than a dancer.

Wondering what to say, Elanor managed to stammer, "Lady Celebrían was beautiful." She had stumbled across many portraits of the former Lady of Rivendell, and had ceased to wonder at Arwen's perfect looks.

The latter smiled again, and placed the cushion artfully in it's place before returning her gaze to Elanor. "My father is on the terrace, through yonder door. It would please him to speak with you, Lady Elanor."

With that, Arwen nodded and swept fluidly out of the room.

 _Well, that was awkward._

Elanor had been involved in precious few encounters with the daughter of Elrond; Arwen had dined with them but twice, and in both instances a larger party had been in attendance. Elanor had never had direct contact with the flawless Elf-woman, preferring to bask in her perfection from a distance. The other Elves were beautiful, certainly, but Arwen was in a league of her own. Knowing that she was talking to the second-fairest Elf in all of Middle Earth—second only to Lúthien Tinúviel—made Elanor feel weak at the knees and hopelessly inadequate.

 _It's probably her Maia heritage. We can't all have an angel in the family._

Shaking herself and ardently wishing she'd dressed herself in something more fancy, Elanor proceeded to the portrait. Upon closer inspection, she realised that Arwen had left it slightly ajar, and pulled it cautiously open. She had not even realised that Elrond had a secret door leading out of his study.

Peering through, Elanor realised the opening led to a small balcony, almost overrun by creeper vines. At this time of year they had become dry and leafless, but she made up her mind to return here when spring had come.

Lord Elrond was seated at a slender desk in the middle of the balcony, his table spread with paperwork. He glanced up with a smile as Elanor entered.

"It gladdens me to see you, Elanor."

She grinned, glad that Elrond was less intimidating than his daughter. Pulling up a second chair which stood near the railing, Elanor studied the Elf for a moment. Whilst his face was tranquil, there was a sadness in his eyes.

"Is there anything you wished to speak of in particular?" he asked after a moment, watching her kindly.

"Ah, yes," Elanor replied, shifting a little. In her left hand she still held the bundle from her bedroom, and began to unwrap it to reveal _The Lord of the Rings_ and _The Silmarillion_. "Did you get my note?" she inquired.

Lord Elrond held up the piece of paper he had been reading earlier in reply. "Whilst your alphabet is different from ours, I believe I have understood your meaning." He allowed the silence to hang for a moment. "You wish to know if I would set bounds upon the use of your foresight."

Sighing, Elanor held up the two books.

"I know everything. It's all in here. I've read both."

Elrond frowned deeply as he studied the two novels.

"Deeply as I wish to, my heart forebodes that great evil should come if I were to peruse these books."

"I think your foresight is correct, once again," Elanor said, the corner of her lip quirking. "Much of your destiny is wrapped up in these novels."

"And you also wish to know how much you ought to tell me?"

"That too," she nodded, placing the books back in her lap. "It is a fine balance—I think I owe you some information because of how much I changed in coming here. And yet… too much could prove disastrous."

Elrond clasped his hands together and rested his chin upon them, still frowning. "If I were to ask, would you tell me the outcome of the quest as detailed in Tolkien's literature?"

Elanor paused before inclining her head hesitantly. "I would."

"And your answer would be?"

"That the quest succeeds."

"Indeed?" Elrond cried, his frown vanishing as a look of astonishment replaced it. "It is more than I believed possible. And yet," he continued, the amazement fading a little, "much have been altered, as you said. The quest still hangs in the balance."

"…yes."

Elanor watched him silently. She had great respect for Lord Elrond's wisdom, not merely because Tolkien had written of him as a mighty sage. As she sat there, Elanor was reminded of a passage she had read but recently: "He was as noble and as fair in face as an elf lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves and as kind as summer."

 _And that about sums him up._

"I think there is little else that you may speak of," he said finally, startling Elanor out of her reverie. "As you say, much may have changed, and you have already voiced those who shall embark upon this quest. Their route is of little concern, for Gandalf knows as well as I the roads of Middle Earth. No," Elrond concluded, "I would ask no more of you."

Elanor was rather pleased at this pronouncement. There was little she could tell him short of handing the novels over and letting him read.

"And what if I were to change events?"

"The fabric of Arda has already been rewoven," Elrond said. "You are part of the pattern of Middle Earth—any action you might take shall be of little consequence. If you believe certain things should remain unaltered, I would allow you to do so without hindrance. You are wise, iell."

Elanor met the Elf-lord's smile with one of her own. "Thankyou," she said, softly.

Elrond reached out and cupped her chin, drawing her eyes to his. "You may consider yourself one of my household as long as you desire it, elen."

Tears flooded Elanor's eyes, spilling down her cheeks and onto Elrond's fingers. He merely brushed them away, all the while fixing her with a gaze that spoke of quiet affection.

"I—I don't—" she began, knowing that one of the most powerful Elf-lords in Middle Earth had essentially offered to adopt and care for her. " _Thankyou_ ," she said, again.

Elrond withdrew his hand, his smile tinged with deep sadness. Elanor felt another rush of tears as she realised that he was processing the loss of Arwen.

 _Eternity is a long time to be parted from someone you love._

 _Someone like Tim?_

 _Now is not the time to bring that up!_

"Elrond, I know—I know about Arwen," she managed, sniffling miserably as she realised that they may well be in a similar predicament. "And—I'm sorry." She placed one hand atop his. His fingers were long and slim, but still dwarfed hers.

Elrond met her gaze, and for an instant she thought his eyes glimmered with tears. The impression was gone a moment later, however, and he squeezed her fingers.

"The world is indeed full of sorrow."

Giving him a watery smile, Elanor attempted to rub away her tears. "I know." Gathering herself, she paused thoughtfully. "What was it you called me earlier? My Sindarin is still pretty rusty."

Elrond grinned. " _Elen_. Do not wonder at its foreign sound, for it is not Sindarin, but Quenya, the tongue of the High Elves. They are not altogether dissimilar, for the Sindarin translation is _el—_ star."

"Oh."

"Your name—Elanor—means _sunstar_ in Sindarin."

Elanor gaped, dumbfounded. "Really?"

"You share your name with a flower which grows in the Woods of Lórien, the home of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Was it not mentioned in the book you possess?" he asked, seeming a little surprised.

 _How the heck did I miss that?_

"It might be," Elanor admitted, sniffing again. "I didn't notice it though—that's so bizarre! My parents named me after an Elvish flower!" She laughed.

 _The Evenstar and the Sunstar… is it possible to get any more ironic? Arwen is like… the antithesis of me!_

Smiling, Elanor continued with her query: "But _elen_ was not the word I meant. You called me something else too, I just can't remember it."

Elrond rose and stretched his mighty shoulders before replying.

" _Iell,_ " he said, softly, grey eyes looking down into her green ones. "It means _daughter_."

* * *

 **#thefeelsarereal**

 **When I last reread _Rings_ , I was super struck by how moved and devastated Elrond was at the loss of Arwen, and her choice to remain mortal. So I wanted to include something of that in my fic, and show some of his deep sorrow.**

 **I gotta admit, Elrond is one of my favourite characters in the Tolkienverse; tbh, most of the Human-Elf line is... Tuor and Idril, Eärendil and Elwing...**

 **Anyways, there's that. Chapter 12. :)**

 **I hope you like it, leave me a review! I'm just about to start another week at uni but I'll do my best to upload another chapter in the next few days or so.**

 **Thanks so much for everyone's support!**

 **Finwe**


	13. The Fellowship is chosen

**Chapter 13**

* * *

 ** _December 18th, 3018 (Third Age)_**

Elanor frowned pensively as she descended from one of Rivendell's upper floors. The stairway upon which she stood curved clockwise around a central oaken beam and resembled a creeper vine in full bloom. Her right hand drifted unfeelingly over the elegant carving, so consumed was she by her thoughts.

Despite the tranquility which pervaded the Last Homely House, Elanor felt a profound sense of disquiet. Only several days ago, the last of the scouts—Elladan and Elrohir—had returned, bringing grim tidings of which they would speak to none but their father.

Today, the Fellowship of the Ring would be chosen.

Elanor had been rather surprised to discover that the book timeline had reasserted itself; it was now, she knew, only one week until the Fellowship would set out. With that knowledge came a flood of anxiety.

 _…how much do I tell them? What if something goes wrong? Oh goodness, what if they don't survive… Boromir's not going to survive… how the hell am I supposed to save him? I'm not even going on the quest… thank gosh… I couldn't… I couldn't make it… and yet Boromir's going to die because of me… someone else could die too… and Elrond said I'd see the Ring again… No! I won't! I won't_ touch _the thing… what if Legolas dies? Or Glorfindel? Oh man, it's like losing them all over again… I miss Tim… and Georgia… and mum and dad and Amanda and everyone! Why the hell am I even here? I just want to go home… but… Far out, what I would give to be with Tim today…_

The thought of weathering a Christmas without her family and boyfriend was a disheartening one. There would be little to celebrate on the cold winter's day, knowing that it also heralded the departure of many of her closest companions in Rivendell. She would sorely miss her hours spent with Legolas and Glorfindel, and the twinkling smiles of the hobbits; she had even grown fond of Gimli—ever the patriot—sharing stories of his homeland and Dwarvish customs.

 _Geez, do I always have to keep losing the people that matter to me?_

Sighing, Elanor turned left into another corridor, angling towards the open terrace which would once more play host to the gathering.

Approaching the intersection of another corridor, she was surprised to see Boromir emerge just ahead, moving in the same direction. Elanor hesitated a moment, knowing he had seen her and wondering if he would pause to be civil.

Boromir also seemed unsure of himself; his long stride faltered, and he half-turned towards her so she could catch up.

"Lady Elanor," he nodded coolly, falling into step beside her.

"Lord Boromir," she replied.

 _Can this day get much worse?_

"I observed you riding the other day," Boromir proffered, after walking for a time in silence.

Elanor chewed her bottom lip, wondering how to respond to his statement. "I enjoy it," she said, after some rumination. She glanced across at him cautiously, attempting to read his expression. He merely stared straight ahead, though his face appeared heavily lined, as if he were plagued by worry.

"You ride astride—is that the custom of your people?" He did not look at her as he spoke.

"Ah… yes."

 _Now I see what he's getting at… Lady Elanor, the improper, all over again…_

"It is certainly more practical," he managed. Elanor frowned, wondering whether she had merely imagined the disapproval in his tone.

"Indeed. Do all the women of Gondor ride sidesaddle?"

"We keep precious few horses in Minas Tirith, lady. The city is quiet, for those who dwell within it are far smaller number than it is capable of holding. The men of Gondor fight upon their own two feet, save for those who have great need of a mount. Riding is rarely practiced by the ladies of Minas Tirith."

 _Ah, yes… Gondor is decaying, isn't it… It would certainly suck to know your nation is so much smaller and less grand than it used to be…_

"I would like to see Minas Tirith very much," Elanor admitted. She felt as if she owed him a certain degree of friendliness despite his surly manner.

"It is a beautiful city," he said, softly, as they rounded a corner and came within sight of their destination.

Elanor attempted to stem the tide of her frustration.

 _Why is it that he's as sullen as can be, and the moment he displays a sliver of emotion it's a bad time for me to try and draw him out?_

Sighing, Elanor found she was profoundly relieved to arrive, for Boromir's mood merely accentuated their present awkwardness. He looked at her briefly as they passed onto the terrace, nodded in quiet civility, and departed. Exhaling slowly, Elanor scanned the gathering for a sign of a familiar companion.

It did not take long to spy a bright golden head which stood above all save Elrond's raven one. Feeling as if the free-spirited company of an Elf would do her good, Elanor made her way in that direction.

* * *

"Lord Glorfindel!"

The tall Elf turned to find the source of the call, his eyes falling upon the figure of a slender young woman. Elanor wore a gown the colour of the sea, floating gracefully about her form and drawing out the green in her eyes. Her bouncy golden curls were pulled back from her face and hung in ringlets down past the nape of her neck. She appeared remarkably hale and well, despite the sense of weary responsibility he had observed growing upon her over the previous days.

"Lady Elanor," he smiled, grasping one of her hands and planting a kiss upon it, as was custom.

She smiled back at him, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. "I haven't seen much of you lately, you've been so busy. Its much harder to muddle through Sindarin translations on my own."

"I fear such enjoyable pastimes are nearing their end," Glorfindel replied, his expression growing more serious. Elanor's own good humour appeared to fade at these words, and the creases of worry upon her brow were accentuated. He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "But come, for there is hope yet, and Lord Elrond shall speak to us."

As if at his command, the company began to find chairs, and Glorfindel took Elanor's arm and led her to a seat.

"Your hair is grown, mellon," he commented by way of distraction, as he sat down beside her.

Elanor gave a small chuckle. "You are not the first to remark upon it. The Prince of Mirkwood believes that I have influenced its growth myself, if you would believe it."

Glorfindel turned and surveyed her critically for a moment. "It is certainly a great deal longer than when you first arrived, mellon-nin." He grinned and reached out to flick one of her curls. "You appeared as close-shorn as a shepherd boy those weeks ago!"

Laughing, she swatted his hand away. "Well, it's grown over six inches since I arrived, which is a miracle! But if you think I was close-shorn, you should find the haircuts of the men in my world quite alarming."

Glorfindel smirked at that, and both fell silent as Lord Elrond rose from his chair.

 _He looks weary_ , he thought, feeling his amusement at Elanor's antics melting away in concern for his lord.

 _Little wonder! Such dark times have not fallen upon us since the Second Age!_

Elrond's eyes roved the circle and came to rest upon the hobbit, Samwise. "The time has come," he said, gravely. "If the Ring is to set out, it must go soon. But those who go with it must not count on their errand being aided by war or force. They must pass into the domain of the Enemy far from aid. Do you still hold to your word, Samwise, that you will be the Ring-bearer?"

"I do," said he, the Westron speech much altered by his peculiar Shire accent.

"Then I cannot help you much, not even with counsel," said Elrond. "I can foresee very little of your road; and how your task is to be achieved I do not know. The Shadow has crept now to the feet of the Mountains, and draws nigh even to the borders of Greyflood; and under the Shadow all is dark to me. You will meet many foes, some open, and some disguised; and you may find friends upon your way when you least look for it. I will send out messages, such as I can contrive, to those whom I know in the wide world; but so perilous are the lands now become that some may well miscarry, or come no quicker than you yourself.

"And I will choose you companions to go with you, as far as they will or fortune allows. The number must be few, since your hope is in speed and secrecy. Had I a host of Elves in armour of the Elder Days, it would avail little, save to arouse the power of Mordor.

"The Company of the Ring shall be Nine; and the Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil. With you, Gandalf will go; for this shall be his great task, and maybe the end of his labours. For the rest, they shall represent the other Free Peoples of the World: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. Legolas and Glorfindel shall be for the Elves; and Gimli son of Glóin for the Dwarves. They are willing to go at least to the passes of the Mountains, and maybe beyond. For men you shall have Aragorn son of Arathorn, for the Ring of Isildur concerns him closely."

Lord Elrond's gaze rested upon him briefly, and Glorfindel nodded slightly. Gone was the might of the Elder Days, and the rules of Gondolin and Doriath and Nargothrond; and yet, the son of Eärendil was still to be considered mighty among the Firstborn. There was hope and strength yet in the Noldor, though less than Glorfindel would have hoped.

 _If this be the task the Valar have appointed me, I shall see it done._

Elanor sighed softly, and Glorfindel glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. The traces of mirth had grown dim, replaced instead by a frown which made her look some years older than the girl she was. Her eyes were fixed intently upon Lord Elrond, though little pleasure did his words seem to bring her.

"Strider!" cried Sam, glancing to the tall Dúnedain Ranger.

"Yes," he said with a smile. "I ask leave once again to be your companion, Sam."

"I would have begged you to come," said Sam, "only I thought you were going to Minas Tirith with Boromir."

"I am," said Aragorn. "And the Sword-that-was-Broken shall be reforged ere I set out to war. But your road and our road lie together for many hundreds of miles. Therefore Boromir will also be in the Company. He is a valiant man."

Glorfindel observed that Elanor turned to Boromir at this. The stern man seemed unmoved by this proclamation, but the woman beside him only seemed to increase in her distress.

 _She is fond of him, I believe, though there is a rift between them… 'Tis little wonder she looks to him, for he is nearer her age than any save the hobbits…_

"There remain two more to be found," said Elrond, interrupting his thoughts. "These I will consider. Of my household I may find some that it seems good to me to send."

"But that will leave no place for us!" cried Pippin in dismay, leaping to his feet. "We don't want to be left behind. We want to go with Sam."

"That is because you do not understand and cannot imagine what lies ahead," said Elrond, and Glorfindel observed that his grey eyes flicked to Elanor at this.

 _And once more she is correct._

He frowned. For a moment he was overcome as images flashed unbidden before his eyes… fire and ash… cries of anguish torn from desert-dry lips… a wall falling with agonising slowness, covering a score of childish bodies as it crumpled with a mighty roar… a flash of golden hair and a clear voice breaking in torment… a city in ruins, and a creature of darkness and flame…

Glorfindel blinked rapidly, attempting to dislodge the ghosts which tantalised his memories.

 _The hobbits know not what they shall encounter… the evil of this world is beyond their reckoning…_

 _And yet, would you deny them their chance to make good?_

"Neither does Sam," put in Gandalf, unexpectedly supporting Pippin and drawing Glorfindel back to the present. "Nor do any of us see clearly. It is true that if these hobbits understood the danger, they would not dare to go. But they would still wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy. I think, Elrond, that in this matter it would be well to trust rather to their friendship than to great wisdom. Even an elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, could not storm the Dark Tower, nor open the road to the Fire by the power that is in him." His blue eyes joined with Glorfindel's for a moment in mutual understanding.

"You speak gravely," said Elrond, "but I am in doubt. The Shire, I forebode, is not free now from peril; and these two I had thought to send back there as messengers, to do what they could, according to the fashion of their country, to warn the people of their danger. In any case, I judge that the younger of these two, Peregrin Took, should remain. My heart is against his going."

 _And yet he shall not forbid it, for Lady Elanor's words hold great sway with him._

 _As if she were his own…_

"Then, Master Elrond, you will have to lock me in prison, or send me home tied in a sack,' said Pippin, emphatically. "For otherwise I shall follow the Company."

"Let it be so then. You shall go," said Elrond, and he sighed. "Now the tale of Nine is filled. In seven days the Company must depart."

* * *

Elanor excused herself from Glorfindel as best she could after the meeting had adjourned. Her stomach felt knotted, and she wished she could shake off the weighty feeling which pressed upon her shoulders like a tangible burden. Apologising for her hasty departure, she hurried to her room, snatched up her cloak, and departed outdoors.

 _At least Elrond listened to you and allowed Merry and Pippin to go…_

 _Would he have forbade them anyway? Gandalf spoke in their defence…_

 _Maybe you should have convinced him to make them stay… they could stop Saruman taking over the Shire and fix a whole lot of problems…_

 _Oh, well done Elanor, you just willingly signed away the lives of some of those innocent hobbits who will die in the defence of the Shire. That's like, being an accessory in a murder case!_

 _Yeah, I'm also letting the company set off in the first place, instead of taking the eagles straight to Mount Doom. Is that my fault too?_ her internal voice snarled as she stalked along the path. Not even the beauty of the evergreen trees could penetrate the unrelenting wave of accusations and taunts which assailed her.

Blundering across the grass, she fell upon the bench seat which had become her peaceful haunt in weeks past. Pent up tears caused her eyes to sting as she pulled her knees to her chest.

"Oh goodness, I just want to go home," she whispered. She allowed the tears to fall, her eyes scrunched shut and mouth pressed into her arm to silence her sobs.

The Fellowship would depart in a week.

 _One week._

Weeks of gratuitous study had left her as utterly ignorant of her function as when she arrived.

 _What the hell am I supposed to be_ doing _here? Aren't heroines of stories supposed to have some overwhelming sense of purpose and duty?_

 _But you're not a heroine. You're just Elanor._

The revelation stung. Middle Earth, with all of its mystery and grandeur, was not her home. Her home was a small, three-bedroom apartment in South Brisbane that she shared with her two oldest girl-friends from high school; her family were a collection of educated middle-class liberals who revelled in the modernity of the twenty-first century; her love was a handsome, dark-haired man who had laughed and cried and worked alongside her for many years.

 _You are not Elrond's daughter._

Elanor took a deep, quavering breath. The thought echoed like broken glass, shattering the air and causing her to physically recoil.

 _…he was as kind as summer…_

Tolkien could have found no better description for Elrond Peredhel.

Elanor had revered him from the moment she had seen him, standing like a faithful sentinel with his broad shoulders, strong jaw, and kind eyes. His fatherly affection had won her, lonely and desolate as she was. He was not Dad, but she found herself loving him more with the passing days.

And, for the first time since she had turned up on that Eregion hillside, Elanor admitted that she would be devastated to lose this new life.

 _How is it possible that I can love and want Tim so much, and yet be terrified at the thought of leaving here? I'd give almost anything to hear his voice… and yet… I don't know that I could give up my place here… oh_ wow _, what has happened to me? I've been converted…_

Were Lord Elrond to stand before her and confess he knew a way to send her home, Elanor would have wept until her tears ran dry.

 _I can't choose. Oh man… I can't choose… what will I do if someone gives me the choice? Gosh, how could I give up either life for good?_

Her stomach heaved, mimicking the tempest which seethed within her; a sickening longing for home fused with her hopelessness and acute concern for her newfound friends.

 _I wish none of this had happened. I wish I'd never met Gimli, or Legolas, or Boromir, or Elrond. I wish I'd never come to this godforsaken book world, and lost my old life. I wish I didn't have to watch those that I have grown to love walk into danger. I wish I could go home._

 _Do you really wish that?_ came a quiet voice, like a whisper from afar.

Elanor faltered, her eyes welling with fresh tears:

" _No_."

* * *

Darkness fell like an inky blanket over Imladris, driving Elanor indoors as her fingers numbed with cold. She had been unable to bear the thought of facing anyone throughout the day, instead slinking further from the house to avoid the presence of other wanderers. Red-faced and puffy-eyed, she had been deeply relieved to find her bath prepared when she returned to her bedchamber after dusk. A soak in the piping hot water of the tub had helped to ease her ruffled _fëa_ somewhat. Her stomach growled insistently for nourishment, and yet she was unable to persuade herself to face the company of even the light-hearted Elves that evening.

Longing for his soothing reassurances, she had sought the company of the Master of Rivendell. Feeling rather like a child in her nighty and dressing gown, Elanor had padded furtively towards Elrond's study.

To her dismay, she encountered Erestor at the entrance to the corridor. He made no comment on her state of dress, merely informing her that Lord Elrond was closeted with Gandalf in a different wing of the house.

Elanor had responded politely to the Elf's words, before creeping to the door of Elrond's study regardless.

 _Goodness, I hope no one's in here…_

Feeling somewhat apprehensive, she opened the door. The room was quite dim, save for the golden firelight which spilled from the crackling hearth. Her own bedroom seemed cold and lonely in contrast, and after a moment's hesitation she shuffled to Elrond's armchair and curled up upon it.

It was far easier to push aside her morbid thoughts as she lost herself in the primeval flickering of the flames. She did not know how much time passed before she was alerted by the gentle creak of hinges.

As she turned towards the study door, it swung gradually open. Silhouetted against the light of the hallway was a tall masculine form; not the one she sought, however, but Glorfindel.

Elanor could not make out his expression as he closed the door softly behind him.

"Erestor informed me you were here alone," he said gently, taking an armchair opposite to hers and seating himself with his usual feline grace. As he drew near to the fire, Elanor noted the gentle concern upon his face.

"I am well, mellon," she whispered, though she sounded small and pitiful even to herself.

Glorfindel said nothing, for which she was profoundly grateful. His pity would have riled her almost as much as harsh speech. Instead, they dwelt in silent companionship which warmed her heart to him. Elanor wrenched her thoughts from her troubles, fixating herself instead upon the fairytale stories of Middle Earth's history.

"Glorfindel?" she said, at length.

"Yes, Elanor?"

She looked at him intently for a moment before speaking: "I read about Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower," was all she said.

The Elf inclined his head slightly. "You have delved deep amongst the history of Arda, mellon." He gave her a small smile, and Elanor refrained from pressing him; she had no desire to test his friendship through wanton curiosity.

Glorfindel allowed the silence to return for a time, before he shifted in his chair and smiled wryly. "I guess your mind, mellon-nin. You desire to know if the Elf is I."

Elanor shrugged. She would not deny it.

"Your supposition is correct," he said, plainly. Sighing, he leaned his head back against the armchair. "I was summoned from the Halls of Mandos, after—the Valar desired that I return to Middle Earth."

Elanor pondered this, and marvelled that she had not asked Glorfindel of his origins before. Absent-mindedly she toyed with the soft material of her dressing gown.

 _Glorfindel's here, and I'm in my pyjamas… that's weird…_

And yet, she did not care particularly.

"I thought you had something hidden," she admitted, quietly. "For a time I believed you were a servant to Lord Elrond, but recently—" She shrugged. "Upon closer acquaintance, I… you seemed…" Unable to find words, Elanor turned to him. "I read that you are equal in strength to one of the Maiar."

The firelight flickered strangely in his eyes, but his countenance was unchanged.

"Such information must come from those books of foresight that you possess, melda," he replied with a hint of humour, "for I have oft scoured Elrond's library myself, and should certainly have removed such information should I have stumbled upon it." He gave a quiet laugh. "You are wrong upon one point, however—I am, in truth, a servant of Elrond. I do his bidding, as I did that of his grandsire before him."

"Turgon," Elanor whispered, recalling then the King of Gondolin.

 _Imagine seeing that place… far out, he's lucky…_

"Aye." Glorfindel surveyed her for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Have I ever told you that you remind me a great deal of Princess Idril?"

Elanor laughed softly, though it sounded wooden to her ears. "No indeed, friend. Would you tell me of her? Even the combination of Lord Elrond's library and my own sources leave much to the imagination."

"If you desire it," Glorfindel nodded. He appeared pleased to have stirred her interest, and Elanor was willing to oblige him.

 _What if he dies on the quest…_

 _Shut up!_

She resettled herself in her chair as Glorfindel began to speak of the majesty of Gondolin, stronghold of the Noldor. Her heart stirred with longing, so greatly did she desire to see Beleriand and the ancient fortresses of the Elves. He described the majesty of the Eldar, lingering fondly upon memories of Ecthelion, Lord of the Fountain.

 _His life is also a sad tale…_

 _The First Age was not all glory and honour and brave deeds… there were many wars, many lives lost… it is not so different from now…_

Elanor brushed a tear from her cheek roughly, adamant that she would not succumb to her emotions again. The conclusion of the Elf's tale—the battle with the Balrog—he left unspoken. The pair sat in quiet for some time, staring into the fire.

"You too are sent to Middle Earth for some peculiar purpose, like me," she murmured absently, tucking her slippered feet beneath her. "Though," she added with a half-hearted grin, "I didn't come back from the dead."

Glorfindel gave a light laugh, the sound of which gladdened Elanor's heart. "The will of the Valar is not mine to question, though I hope I may play some part in Master Gamgee's journey."

"You going on the quest solves a lot of problems, you know," Elanor said, wresting her emotions into submission. "I mean, in Khazad-dum—" She broke off, somewhat horrified that she had almost given away the secret about Gandalf's fight with the Balrog.

Her abrupt halt did not pass unnoticed. Glorfindel turned to her, interest upon his face. "You speak of Moria, lady. I did not know that Gandalf intended to pass that way."

Elanor sighed.

 _You're an_ idiot _, giving things away just because you're feeling nostalgic and sad and reminiscing with an ancient Elf about destiny and all that soppy rubbish!_

 _Thanks, you're a_ real _encouragement!_

"I should not have spoken of it," she said, hoping that he would not press her further, and sensing the approach of tears.

 _But… Glorfindel is more powerful even than Gandalf, or so Tolkien wrote… he has defeated a balrog… what happens if they get to the bridge and Glorfindel just takes over the situation and Gandalf doesn't become Gandalf the White? Then what? The whole quest could fail!_

"And I would not force confidence with you," Glorfindel assured her, "though you test my strength of will sorely."

"I'm sorry," she said, truthfully. "Though now I think of it, there are several things I should warn you of. Don't speak of this to the others, not even to Gandalf. Promise?"

"I shall take an oath, if you desire." He turned towards her, saying, "Speak, lady, for your knowledge and foresight interest me."

"The Fellowship will take the road under the mountain, through Khazad-dum," Elanor said, slowly, monitoring Glorfindel's reaction as she spoke. "Lord Elrond bid me share what information I deemed necessary, and I must tell you this: you will face trouble in Moria, but do not interfere with Gandalf. There are certain—things—which must occur, however tragic they seem at the time." The Elf's face registered some dismay at this, and Elanor hurried on falteringly. "Things will all be right in the end, so don't worry. But there will be—look, it's going to look hopeless and awful and you'll all be sad, but it _has_ to happen," she finished, struggling to verbalise the importance of her warning. "It's imperative you don't interfere, even… even though you are one of the mightiest Elves of this age."

Elanor watched him nervously, hoping he had gleaned the unspoken meaning of her words.

Glorfindel merely smiled. "Your foreknowledge has been faultless thus far, melda. I shall adhere to your wishes, though it puzzles me exceedingly. Lord Elrond's sight is veiled by the cloud which descends upon us, and I welcome any wisdom you may bestow."

 _Thank the heavens._

"Good," Elanor replied, feeling both relieved and exhausted in an overwhelming rush. Another surge of affection filled her for the golden-haired Elf. He possessed joy and sensitivity in equal measure, and she was glad she had warned him about the balrog—even if her message was indecipherably cryptic.

 _The Elves of the First Age were incredibly powerful… I mean, Fingolfin battled Morgoth, who was even more powerful than Sauron… and he_ injured _him…_

Elanor studied Glorfindel as he rose to tend the fire, his almost-six-and-a-half-foot frame moving with all the litheness of a cat.

 _…and here before me stands a remnant of that age…_

Her inner voice chuckled, and surprised her with a measure of encouragement:

 _Perhaps the quest isn't doomed to failure after all!_

* * *

 _ **Of Glorfindel - my personal take on him is that he has sort of submitted himself to Elrond as a servant, a friend and advisor, after the Fall of Gondolin. The Valar wanted him to return to help aid the war against Sauron, and he's also got a debt to pay to the Peredhel line.**_

 **But, there you have it! Chapter 13!**

 **I'm sorry it also took so long - I had it finished over 24 hours ago but silly went down just as I wanted to upload it, and so I have been eagerly awaiting an opportunity to share this one with you all. It _is_ long, so I hope you can get through it!**

 **Reviews are (as always) welcome!**

 **And Chapter 14 is half-done. :3**

 **Finwe**


	14. Explorations of Imladris

**Chapter 14**

* * *

 **20th December, 3018 (Third Age)**

 _… and Peter Jackson got the Elves entirely wrong. I mean, the movies were wonderful—but even Hugo Weaving somehow falls short of Elrond's real majesty. I suppose you can't expect humans to live up to the task of portraying Elves, for they've got a kind of magic of their own. There is not one who is not slim and agile and athletic, and yet they have all the joy of children. I never knew how funny it would be to play chess with Erestor; I just assumed he'd be a complete Marvin, and no fun at all._

 _I can't really make a judgement call about the humans here yet, because the only two I have seen are Aragorn and Boromir. Aragorn's had a hard life—his father dead, his mother dead, and years spent wandering in the wild with little food and no bath. Three weeks of that was enough for me!_

 _Boromir's hardly less grim than Aragorn, though. I wonder how early on the Ring starts to affect him… Far out, I still haven't figured out a way to fix that situation… Maybe I should tip Glorfindel off, so Boromir doesn't do an actual Sean Bean…_

 _Speaking of problems, there's a serious one with Sam. I'm completely lost for what to do. I haven't managed to speak to him at all yet, because every time I'm with Merry and Pippin he avoids us. I think the hobbits must be quartered at the other end of the house, because I rarely bump into them on a day-to-day basis, except at mealtimes (Merry and Pippin never miss mealtimes). Bilbo's a dear too; he's constantly wrapped up in his writing and reciting, and it's rather fun to sit and listen to him some evenings, even if his poems go on forever. But yes, I have two problems to solve now, Boromir and Sam, and I've no idea how to fix either of them._

* * *

Elanor paused, letting the quill hover above her parchment. The blotted page was scarcely coherent, and yet she had discovered it relieved her a great deal to verbalise the thoughts which flew rashly around her brain.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to relieve the soreness in her arms and back. The previous day, Legolas had undertaken to teach her a style of knife fighting which resulted in the tender pain she had awoken to this morning. She was eager to learn as much as possible from him in the time that remained to them, for the idea of seeking a new sparring partner after Christmas didn't appeal to her much.

That said, she found the prospect of resolving her conflict with Sam equally distasteful.

Elanor could not rationalise the hobbit's hatred for her, save that he mourned Frodo deeply and she was a convenient target for his misery. Sighing, she dropped the quill upon the desk. It splattered ink across the parchment, though it was already so sullied it did not concern her. She could not think of anything else to write, and her hand ached from the unfamiliar task of using a quill.

Glancing about her bedroom, Elanor rose from her desk; two months of occupation had altered the chamber considerably. It was less sparsely furnished than before, and the bedlinen had been changed according to her taste. Pictures and maps had been added to the walls, and several armchairs and the desk at which she sat were positioned to provide her with pleasant views over the gardens. The small stove which heated her bathwater was kept lit day and night, and she was grateful for the cosy warmth it emitted.

Gently pressing the parchment to check the ink was dry, Elanor deposited it within her desk drawer.

 _No good having Indilwen reading that one while I'm out…_

Slowly, Elanor moved to the window. Her fingers brushed the icy glass. It was barely mid-morning, and she felt overwhelmingly listless. Imladris had undergone a flurry of activity following the meeting two days before; Elf, Man, Dwarf and Hobbit were all readying themselves for the foray into the wild. Rivendell was chilly enough after her Australian upbringing, but Elanor knew that outside the borders of Elrond's influence the weather would be far less temperate. She had preferred to retreat to her chambers rather than observe the preparations that took place. Legolas still possessed a measure of free time, but both Elrond and Glorfindel were consumed by the task at hand. Gandalf had disappeared entirely, though Elanor thought she had caught a glimpse of him buried amidst a formidable pile of maps the previous evening, and few were not engaged in some form of scheme to aid the Fellowship.

As pleasant as her bedroom was, Elanor loathed the idea of remaining there throughout the day. She had been given quarters in a quiet wing of the house, which housed close friends or family come to stay; she had located Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel's room not far from her own, though it was—like most of the wing at that time—empty. However, the short-term guest quarters were far removed from her rooms, as were the chambers occupied by Lord Elrond, Lady Arwen, and the twins Elladan and Elrohir. Few Elves dwelt nearby, and none save Indilwen ever entered. Elanor was so often to be found within Lord Elrond's study that it had become customary for everyone to seek her out there. With her usual haunt closed to her—occupied by councils of the wise—Elanor was left mostly alone. Indilwen was a friendly face, but despite her growing mastery of Sindarin Elanor struggled to engage with the Elf. She spent a great deal of time pouring over Elvish texts, and thus her ability to read and write increased more swiftly than her powers of conversation.

Returning to her desk, Elanor flicked idly through the volumes which formed a neat stack upon it. She had begun to devour Elrond's library, wholly entranced by the new realm of history which opened beneath her feet. She had exhausted the four books in her possession, however. Shrugging to herself, Elanor collected them, slipped a shawl over her shoulders, and made for the library in search of new entertainment.

* * *

The library of Imladris was a vaulted chamber, lined by towering shelves. Beautiful paintings stretched across and up the walls until they covered the ceiling, reminding Elanor of the Sistine Chapel. It was cooler than her room, with it's mosaic-tiled floors and soaring arched windows, and she was glad for her wrap as she gently pushed open the door.

In the absence of its usual visitors, the library was enveloped in an air of clinging silence. Elanor padded cautiously across the floor, feeling as if she were an intruder and fervently wishing to hear the musical sound of Elvish laughter or Merry and Pippin's high voices.

Crossing the open entranceway, Elanor returned the books under her arm to their places and began an aimless wandering amidst the rows of shelves. It was easy to become lost in Elrond's library, or to take up residence in one of the cosy nooks and lose all awareness of time. On many occasions, Elanor had spent hours in one such alcove, attempting to pull together pieces of Middle Earth's history or laughing hysterically at Merry and Pippin's tales of the Shire.

The present silence unnerved her a little.

Moving slowly, Elanor scanned briefly the titles upon the spines of the books. Most were simple retellings of the events in _The Silmarillion_ , though she had stumbled upon much more detailed recounts in her perusal of the genuine Elvish texts. However, she occasionally spied a work which greatly interested her; histories of Elvish medicine were always fascinating, she had discovered very quickly. The Elves appeared to have grasped a number of concepts that Elanor recognised from her own world.

 _Good to know that they've figured out how to prevent infection!_

Rounding a corner, Elanor stumbled upon a small figure bent over a desk.

"Bilbo!" she cried, pleased to find someone in the crypt-like silence.

The hobbit glanced up before breaking into a smile. He was propped up on several cushions, and before him was spread a great leather-bound book.

"Lady Elanor; this is a most pleasant surprise!" Placing his quill down carefully, he scrambled to his feet and held out his hands in greeting. "Forgive me for not seeking you out earlier; I have just been recording the last details that Master Samwise has given me of their journey to Rivendell."

Elanor smiled back at him. "That is well, for you shall have plenty more to add when he comes home!"

Bilbo surveyed her for a moment. His face was weathered and lined, and yet there was an irrepressible sparkle in his brown eyes, evidence of the life and _fëa_ the elderly hobbit still possessed.

"I believe you are correct, Lady," he said at last. "Come, though," he grasped her hand and drew her forward, "join me, for I have been at work for many hours and would enjoy some company."

Feeling heartfelt thanks towards the kindly hobbit, Elanor obliged, taking a second chair beside the desk. Bilbo flipped casually through several other pages, attempting to organise his scattered thoughts.

"I have similarly devoted some time to the writing of songs, with the aid of the Dúnadan," he informed her. Seeing Elanor's confusion at the strange title, he clarified, "The Dúnadan is a name I gave Strider—that is, Lord Aragorn—some time ago. Have you spent aught time with him, my lady?" he asked glancing up from his work.

Elanor shook her head. "Scarcely any, I'm afraid. He was absent with the scouting parties for many weeks, and is at present much occupied with Lord Elrond and his family."

"Ah," Bilbo smiled knowingly, "the Undómiel. I should advise you to speak with him, however, ere too long, for his tale is a most interesting one. Lord Elrond himself fostered him here in Rivendell until he had grown to manhood, just as has done with yourself."

 _Aragorn was Elrond's_ foster-son _?_

 _Wait, does that mean that Aragorn and I are_ foster-siblings _?_

"Really?" Elanor asked, unable to contain her surprise.

"Aye," the hobbit sighed, still happily shuffling amongst his prolific works. "He grew alongside the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, as a son of Elrond; Estel, he was named, though he forsook that title not long after his true heritage as Chieftain of the Dúnedain and Isildur's Heir were revealed to him."

"I did not know that Lord Elrond and Lord Aragorn were as close as that," Elanor said slowly; she had seen the Elf speak with courtesy and kindness to the man before him, but they did not behave as father and son.

 _Yet another thing I missed while reading the Silmarillion..._

Bilbo sighed a little here, gently pressing the pages before him into piles. "Alas, for Estel of old endured many hardships; Lord Elrond would not be parted with his daughter save to the King of Gondor and Arnor, and not long after he became Aragorn did the Dúnadan depart Imladris. He has scarcely returned here since, and whilst Lord Elrond has welcomed him, they are not the father and son they were in the days of Aragorn's boyhood."

 _Goodness, no wonder Elrond's had such a rough time—and Aragorn looks so stern and silent!_

"That is an interesting tale—thank you for sharing it with me, Bilbo," Elanor said softly, feeling her heart go out to the pair. Elrond must have loved Aragorn deeply; she had not realised that there was so much complexity to the relationship between Aragorn and Arwen.

"The telling of tales—that is all I am fit for these days," the hobbit chuckled. "I should very much like to hear some stories of your own, Lady Elanor."

Elanor smiled slightly. "Perhaps you shall, after the bustle has died down and the Fellowship has departed." Her good humour faded as she again contemplated her dilemmas.

 _How on earth do I fix things with Sam…_

Bilbo turned to her and seemed to read her expression. "What concerns you, my lady?"

She sighed. "Have you noticed that Master Samwise seems set to avoid me, Bilbo?"

"Ah." The hobbit smiled a little and patted her hand in a grandfatherly fashion. "Do not be troubled by that, Lady Elanor. Samwise is slower than most to forget the loss of his master. In time, he shall not be so fierce."

"But it wasn't as if it were my fault," Elanor reminded him, feeling somewhat irked that Sam could blame her.

"I never said it was. But Master Samwise cannot forget that you were brought to Rivendell not long before Frodo passed, and cannot contemplate how Lord Elrond was able to restore your health and not his beloved friend's," the hobbit told her, kindly. His own face showed lingering sadness, and Elanor was profoundly grateful he had not also turned his heart against her.

 _So that's it. I survived, and Frodo didn't. Wow, I wasn't that sick, was I?_

"But I was merely tired. Frodo had been—" Elanor broke off, unable to speak the horrifying words.

Bilbo's eyes shone with unshed tears. "I quite understand, Lady Elanor, and yet when Lord Elrond rushed to your bedside, Samwise merely saw the abandonment of Frodo for the sake of a strange woman. We are simple Shirefolk, not healers or teachers or wise counsellors."

Nodding slowly, Elanor watched as the hobbit began to gather his belongings into his arms. She was glad to know Sam's reasoning, but was no less baffled by the prospect of remedying the situation.

"I am afraid I must depart, however. There are several things I must attend to, foremost amongst these the conduct of several cheeky young hobbits," Bilbo said, rising. He favoured her with a friendly smile. "I am sure you shall do what is best, Lady Elanor."

Elanor bit her lip to prevent tears as she stood to her feet. "Thank you," she whispered. "And thank you for telling me about Aragorn; I wish I knew more of him."

"It is my pleasure," Bilbo bowed. With that, he smiled once more and hurried away on his short legs.

* * *

"Come in."

Lord Elrond glanced up from his parchment at a sharp rap on his study door. Half a moment later, it opened to reveal the dark-haired form of Erestor, his seneschal.

"You summoned me, lord?" he asked in Sindarin, moving into the room and pausing.

"Yes," Elrond replied, returning his quill to parchment briefly before placing it on its stand. "Would you be so kind as to take this missive to Lord Glorfindel, and summon Lady Elanor for me?" While he spoke, Elrond deftly folded the parchment.

Erestor nodded as his master imprinted his seal upon the letter. "Certainly. Do you have any notion of Lady Elanor's whereabouts?"

"None whatsoever. I have had little opportunity to speak with her these past days, and desire to now."

Erestor received the letter with a small bow. "I shall be swift." Turning, he departed the study.

Elrond rubbed his temples slowly. As much as both he and Gandalf deemed it necessary, the loss of Glorfindel from his household would be blatantly apparent. The golden-haired Noldorin lord was an invaluable advisor and staunch friend, serving Elrond with the same loyalty he had demonstrated towards King Turgon and his daughter, Princess Idril. As such, Elrond found there were many ends which must be secured prior to Glorfindel's departure.

 _I must ask Erestor about filling Glorfindel's duties... someone shall have to take responsibility for the patrols... perhaps I shall ask the twins, for I believe they shall not be hastening off anytime soon... yes, the twins..._

He was startled out of his musings by a gentle knocking.

"Come in," he called once more.

Elanor peeped in cautiously, appearing somewhat bemused by the summons.

"Yes, adar?"

Elrond smiled at her address, which sounded foreign from her tongue. "Come, sit. I merely wished to see you, muin." Elanor relaxed at this, and moved to take a chair near his desk.

Elrond studied his foster-daughter as she sat gracefully, noting the still-slender form and glinting golden curls.

Elanor's arrival those months ago had caused a significant stir within Imladris; rumours had swiftly circulated that a strange noblewoman had arrived from the South, and Elrond had not quenched such speculation. He was, admittedly, still somewhat unsure of Elanor's precise standing within her own world, which appeared to function in an entirely foreign manner to Arda. Nonetheless, the people of Imladris had displayed toward her a certain degree of deference. She spoke intelligently, and was often closeted with either himself, Lord Glorfindel or Prince Legolas. Many believed her to be a noblewoman from the Riddermark, or of Prince Imrahil's household far south in Dol Amroth. Elrond's adoption of her as his foster-daughter had merely confirmed the suspicions of his household. Truly she was now Lady Elanor, and Elrond found her puzzlement about her title rather endearing.

Realising that she was waiting for him to speak, Elrond relaxed in his chair and smiled at her.

"Forgive me for not seeing more of you earlier, iell," he began. "There shall be more time for learning and for speech when the Company has departed, though it grieves me that you lack company in this troubling time."

"I understand, ada," Elanor nodded.

 _She appears tense; as soon as the Fellowship leaves, I really ought to speak with her more about her knowledge of events. She must be deeply troubled by such dilemmas._

"How have you occupied yourself today?" he asked instead, attempting to keep the conversation light.

She shrugged a little, giving a fairly muted account of her activities.

 _She is lonely too, and little wonder—her closest companions shall soon depart._ _She should speak more with Arwen; it would do them both good._

Elrond nodded to himself, pleased with the solution.

"Your sister is also in need of company," he remarked.

"My sister?" Elanor frowned, and Elrond noted the pain which flickered in her eyes at the thought of the one she called Georgia.

"Nay, iell—Arwen."

It took a moment for Elanor to respond to this, and she gave a small laugh. "I'm sorry, ada, I forgot that I had become part of the whole family."

Elrond chuckled. "It is to be expected. The twins also desire your closer acquaintance." The pair had been quite taken with the golden-haired woman, finding her intriguing and witty. Elrond knew that they oft missed the company of their first _edain_ foster-sibling, for Aragorn son of Arathorn had long since ceased to have time for lighthearted games.

"I would love to see more of them," Elanor admitted. Her expression grew brighter as Elrond spoke with her, for which she was glad.

 _You have an unfortunate habit of collecting mortal foster-children, Elrond Eärendil's son._

The thought pressed upon his tender heart, accentuating the ever-present pain caused by the knowledge that one of his own flesh-and-blood children would be parted from him ere long.

 _And yet I should not undo what I have done._

Having satisfied himself that she was well, and intending to devote more time to her later, Elrond shuffled forward in his seat. "I wish I could spare longer, _melda_ , but alas! There is much to be done, and I must speak with Mithrandir this afternoon," he said, rising from his chair. Elanor nodded in understanding.

"That's alright. Legolas has promised to spar with me this afternoon anyway."

Elrond smiled. "Good. It is rare for the members of Royal House of Mirkwood to stir abroad, but I am gladdened by your friendship. Lord Aragorn also found companionship amongst the sons of Thranduil."

"Legolas is like the brother I never had," the girl admitted, with a blithe smile.

 _It is easy to forget how young she is, for at first glance she might be of the Vanyar._

"That is well." Elrond drew his new daughter into a warm embrace, her head scarcely reaching his shoulder. "Enjoy your afternoon, muin."

Moving to the door, Elanor smiled softly over her shoulder. "And you, adar."

* * *

 **21st December 3018 (Third Age)**

It took Elanor until the following day to muster up enough courage to approach Arwen Undómiel, Lady of Rivendell. She swiftly realised the wisdom in Elrond's suggestion that she spend more time with Arwen, for the Elf woman appeared as unoccupied as herself. However, actually approaching the most beautiful Elf in Middle Earth was an entirely different matter.

She had eaten lunch on the terrace with Legolas; Elrond's other statement about the royalty of Mirkwood had stirred her interest, and she decided to quiz her friend on his homeland. As it turned out, the Mirkwood Elves were mostly Sindar or Silvan, unlike the Noldorin and Vanyarin members of Elrond's household. Mirkwood possessed closer ties with Lothlórien than with Imladris, as Lord Celeborn and King Thranduil were both of Sindarin descent and hailed from the ancient kingdom of Doriath. Elanor had been initially overwhelmed by the complexity of the Elvish factions, but believed she was beginning to grasp the political alliances. Whilst Thranduil was not openly hostile, he had no great love for the Noldor, and only his esteem for Aragorn and Celeborn had persuaded him to send his younger son as an emissary to Rivendell.

Despite the depth of the conversation, Elanor greatly enjoyed the company of the Prince. At times she half-wondered how the son of an Elven king had come to be her friend, but decided not to question it overmuch. She had precious little time to enjoy Legolas' presence.

When the Elf had reluctantly departed, Elanor managed to convince herself that she would take Lord Elrond's advice and locate Lady Arwen. She returned to her rooms first, however, to dress in a becoming jasmine-coloured gown and check her face and hair. Feeling as if she would always appear woefully inadequate next to the Evenstar's beauty, Elanor set out before she could change her mind.

She had a vague understanding of the location of Elrond's family's rooms, and angled herself in that direction. After wandering the less-familiar corridors hopelessly for a quarter of an hour, she was relieved to encounter Erestor.

"Gi suilon, Elanor. Man i theled i oduleg hí?"

Elanor hesitated a little, hoping she had understood his words correctly.

"I am looking for Lady Arwen," she said, unable to contemplate the Sindarin equivalent fast enough.

"Boe gin eliad?"

"Ma, le athae," Elanor smiled, breathing a sigh of relief.

Erestor merely gave a slight bow, before falling into step beside her and indicating the direction they should go.

"Your Sindarin improves," he remarked, with a half-smile.

Elanor laughed in her turn. "Glorfindel is an excellent teacher."

"His Quenya is faultless also, and he knows more of that tongue than any save Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel."

"I shall keep that in mind if I decide to learn another language," Elanor said, feeling somewhat overburdened at the prospect of attempting to absorb more strange tongues. Sindarin was challenging enough.

Erestor merely smiled. It did not take long for them to reach one of the upper corridors, and he paused before a door.

"Here is Lady Arwen's sitting room, where she is to be found most often these days."

"Gi hannon," Elanor nodded, exceedingly grateful.

"I 'ell nîn." With that, Erestor departed.

Elanor stood for half a minute outside Arwen's rooms, wondering how one approached the daughter of an Elven lord. Somehow, Arwen seemed more lofty and regal than any of the other Elves, despite the fact that Glorfindel was friends with a king and Legolas was a Prince in his own right.

Eventually, she settled on the obvious solution—knocking.

"Come in."

Taking a deep breath, Elanor opened the door.

Arwen's chambers were quite as beautiful as the _elleth_ herself. Lying at the very top of Imladris, the ceiling was vaulted and contained many skylights, through which filtered the cool light of the winter's day. Every article within the sitting room bespoke the Evenstar's elegance and beauty.

Elanor swallowed hard.

"Lady Arwen," she managed, bowing her head respectfully.

"I believe that I am to call you _nethig_ ," came the light reply. Arwen's voice was rich and smooth, with the same warm tone as her father's.

Elanor glanced up, taking stock of the Elf before her. Arwen was seated upon a lounge, a book in hand an a smile of soft amusement upon her face.

 _Nethig… nethig… does that mean…_

"Little sister," Arwen supplied, placing her book down and rising.

 _Oh gee she's gorgeous._

"Thankyou, my lady," Elanor stammered, as Arwen drew near and placed a hand on each of her shoulders. She looked intently into her face, but Elanor's eyes fell to the floor.

"Elanor."

Her green eyes struggled to meet the grey ones.

"We are kin," the Elf-woman said simply, "and I am glad to see you."

 _…well…_

"Thankyou," came Elanor's soft response.

"Will you sit with me?" Arwen asked, removing one hand and gesturing to the lounge. Elanor nodded mutely and allowed herself to be led to a seat. If she had believed Indilwen to be graceful, Arwen far surpassed the word. Every movement was like watching a dance. A smile played ever at the Elf's, and her grey eyes were not as stern as Elanor had previously imagined.

 _The last time you saw her, in Elrond's study, she'd just been talking with her father about becoming mortal. How do you think you'd behave if you were trying to convince your dad to let you give up your immortality for a grizzled guy of eighty-seven?_

Realising that Arwen was studying her, Elanor flushed slightly pink and toyed nervously with a golden curl. She had ceased to disregard Legolas' theory of her hair growth several days ago, for now it fell to just below her shoulder blades, fully a foot longer than when she had arrived.

"Ada mentioned you might come to see me," Arwen said, settling herself comfortably on the couch with an inordinate amount of elegance.

Elanor swallowed again. "Yes, he did suggest I should seek your company."

"I'm glad you have come, for the days are long and I have little to occupy me at present."

"I am much the same."

Silence fell for a moment before Arwen spoke again: "I generally walk in the garden in the morning, if you should care to join me tomorrow."

Pause.

"I would like that," Elanor admitted truthfully.

The conversation continued for another quarter of an hour. Whilst Elanor continued to feel distinctly uncomfortable, she discovered Arwen was an engaging and friendly companion. She made no comment at her foster-sister's lack of speech, but continued with gentle kindness and tact.

At last, Elanor professed that she should allow Arwen to continue her reading and rose to go. The latter made no protest, standing as well. She escorted Elanor to the door, before moving so they stood face-to-face.

Elanor shifted uncomfortably, though this time she was able to match Arwen stare-for-stare.

 _She certainly is beautiful… her skin is so smooth, and her eyes have perfect lashes…_

 _And she has the manner of her father._

It was true, and Elanor could not deny it. She would enjoy becoming closer acquainted with anyone who resembled Lord Elrond, in thought and deed.

"I enjoyed speaking with you," she said, hoping to ease her own awkwardness and present an olive branch of friendship to her new sister.

Arwen laughed merrily. "As did I. We shall speak again on the morrow."

"That—sounds good," Elanor finished lamely, feeling suddenly tired and struggling to keep up the manner of the Elves. She had worked long and hard to adapt her speech to Middle Earth, rephrasing her sentences until they flowed smoothly. Now, however, her pleasantries had run dry.

Arwen squeezed her arm gently and smiled. "Lord Glorfindel was correct about you, nethig."

Elanor's eyes widened in alarm. "What did he say?" she asked, feeling suddenly concerned about the tales her friend might have relayed. Glorfindel was kind, but he possessed a great sense of mischief which had always amused her-until now.

Arwen merely twinkled at her. "That you make a fine _edhel_."

* * *

 **On Sindarin conversations:** **I am afraid that at present I don't have the exact translations for Erestor and Elanor's conversation written down. However, it is not difficult to find if you google the phrases.**

 **I have used more Sindarin words in this chapter; "iell" (daughter), "nethig" (sister), "ada" (father), etc. These are also fairly easy to locate, and I am planning in later chapters to incorporate a translated list of the words/phrases I use for you all so you don't have to go hunting. Not tonight, however, for I have managed to get my second chapter up in one day. :D**

 **Elanor is beginning to take on a life of her own, so if you have suggestions I can certainly bring them to her. I cannot guarantee them, however, for she is strong-willed and has settled into Elrond's household, even if she misses her own.**

 **I wanted to begin addressing Elanor and Sam's estrangement, and also incorporate more of Arwen. It felt odd to have so much Elanor-Elrond involvement and yet not have her friendly with Arwen and the Twins. Expect more Elladan-Elrohir-Arwen in the fic as it progresses!**

 **Also, SPOILER, but, the real Fellowship adventures begin in Chapter 15, the next instalment. It may take a day or two to construct (I have an essay to compose tomorrow morning) but after that I shall devote myself to you over the weekend. :3**

 **Feel free to leave reviews/follow/favourite! ^_^**

 **Finwe x**


	15. The Ring Goes South

**Chapter 15 - The Ring Goes South**

 **HAPPY CHAPTER 15 GUYS!**

 **This story has been going on for over three weeks now, and we're at nearly 50,000 words. Wow. Can't believe it!**

 **I hope you're enjoying it so far; this chapter is more of an interlude, a fit-in piece that goes between Elanor's sojourn in Rivendell and... other things. It is short, but is the precursor to more wordy pieces.**

 **Onward!**

* * *

 **25th December 3018 (Third Age)**

The frigid breeze clawed at Elanor's bones like a rabid animal. Drawing her thick mantle closer about her, she attempted to shake away the wisps of hair that whipped her cheeks.

Almost the entirety of Imladris had gathered outside the house, braving the arctic winter's day to observe the departure of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Lord Elrond stood at the front of the party, flanked by his sons and seneschal on his left, and his daughters—young and old—upon his right. Behind was a gathering of Elves and those, such as Bilbo, who remained behind.

Elanor's chest was an aching mass. Before them, the Fellowship was busy gathering their last-minute supplies. Samwise was affectionately stroking Bill the Pony on the muzzle, whilst the younger hobbits fussed with his saddlebags. Gimli stood beside Boromir, conversing in low gruff tones, whilst Gandalf and Aragorn waited in silence. Legolas and Glorfindel alone appeared at ease, lingering in easy companionship.

At length Elrond raised his voice over the soft murmuring. "This is my last word," he said solemnly. "The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way. You may tarry, or come back, or turn aside into other paths, as chance allows. The further you go, the less easy will it be to withdraw; yet no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," said Gimli.

"Maybe," said Elrond, "but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

"Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart," said Gimli.

"Or break it," came the Elf-lord's response, in his quiet way. "Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts! Farewell, and may the blessing of Elves and Men and all Free Folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces!"

"Good . . . good luck!" cried Bilbo, stuttering with the cold. "I don't suppose you will be able to keep a diary, Sam my lad, but I shall expect a full account when you get back. And don't be too long! Farewell!"

The Fellowship gathered together then, and Elrond stepped forward to farewell them each in turn. Erestor followed him, as did Elrond's three biological children. Elladan and Elrohir gripped the forearms of their friends, lingering especially with Aragorn and the two Elves. Arwen was as regal as ever, and Elanor felt her heart throb with empathy. She stood before Aragorn last, bestowing upon him a nod and but a handful of words. With that, she rejoined her family.

And then it was Elanor's turn.

* * *

"Farewell, Elrond's daughter," Gimli son of Glóin said somewhat gruffly, taking one of her hands between his own.

Elanor nodded dumbly, unable to speak. She had spent the least time with the Dwarf, and was inexplicably touched by his kindness.

* * *

Merry and Pippin were the most subdued she had ever seen them, and on impulse she drew them both into an embrace.

"Goodbye," she whispered into Pippin's shoulder.

"Farewell, Lady Elanor," Merry said. After Elanor released him, Pippin merely stood silent, unable to speak.

* * *

Aragorn towered over her, his dark hair falling over his face slightly.

"Fare the well, Lady Elanor," the tall Ranger said, taking her hands as Gimli had. "I regret that we had so little time together."

"I also," Elanor whispered, attempting to rein in her emotions and failing miserably.

Aragorn's eyes flicked to Arwen almost imperceptibly, but Elanor noted the deep emotion upon his face. She felt her own heart throb in response, thoughts straying to Tim. Aragorn's voice dropped to a whisper.

"I leave you in care of each other."

 _Oh wow, why does this have to be so hard..._

Unable to stem the rush of tears, Elanor merely nodded and attempted to brush them away with one gloved hand.

Aragorn squeezed her fingers once more, before regaining his usual stern composure and moving aside.

* * *

Elanor looked up at Boromir through a veil of tears. She felt so overcome by the present moment that even the awkwardness of their relationship had ceased to matter to her.

Boromir placed one hand upon her shoulders and favoured her with a half-hearted smile, the first he had given her since that night in the corridor. Elanor's eyes fell to the pavement.

"I don't know how I shall manage without a distressed damsel to carry."

Almost disbelieving, Elanor's head snapped back up. Seeing the mixture of sadness and affection upon Boromir's face, she was swamped with regret that she had not made more effort to amend their relationship.

"Boromir—"

He held up one hand to silence her.

"Peditham hi sui vellen?" he asked, lapsing into the Sindarin which was custom amongst the nobles of Gondor.

Elanor could only nod.

* * *

"Na lû n'i a-goveninc, Elanor, mellon nin," said Legolas, his voice uncharacteristically raspy.

Elanor had long since abandoned her attempt to wrest her emotions into submission. She allowed her tears to fall freely as she stood before the Elf, seeing only the ends of his coffee-coloured hair.

Hiccuping, she determined that she would say all she intended this time.

"I'm going to miss our sparring together," Elanor mumbled, "and everything—I'm going to miss you. Take—take care of yourself, look after the hobbits, and—"

"Elanor—"

"No, let me first," she pleaded, giving him a watery smile, "or I'll never get this done. You have been there for me when I most needed it, Legolas—you—you… _Thankyou._ You are my _hanar_ , my brother. I—I wish… please. Make sure you come back."

Braving a glance at Legolas' face, she saw that his blue eyes were also glistening. Wordlessly, he reached out and drew her into an embrace—a gesture reserved for close friends or kin amongst the Elves.

"I shall miss you too, brennil vuin."

* * *

"You are full of surprises, young Miss Elanor," chuckled Gandalf, resting upon his staff as he twinkled down at her. "You have quite surpassed every expectation I had of you; now, one of the Ladies of Imladris, acquainted with those members of the Line of Fingolfin. You dress as an Elf, speak your stilted Sindarin with more grace than most, and cavort with Lords and Princes." He paused, smiling still, and his voice dropped low. "Little did either of us imagine such an eventuality when I observed you wake those weeks ago."

* * *

Elanor breathed deep, attempting to impress upon herself the gravity of what she was about to say.

"Glorfindel, this is important," she began, willing her eyes to stop leaking tears down her cheeks. "I have spoken to you of some of these things already, but there are several other important points I _have_ to make."

The Elf's face was grave, and he bid her to go on with a curt nod.

"I mentioned Gandalf and Khazad-dum before," Elanor whispered. "Don't forget that advice. It's more important than you realise. Please."

"As you wish, mellon."

Sighing, she steeled herself to continue: "Glorfindel, Boromir is going to die."

"What?" The Elf's face was aghast, pale skin turning ashen.

"Don't ask," she muttered, feeling disgusted by her own disclosure. "It's not for a while—after Lothlórien. But—keep an eye on him for me, won't you?"

Glorfindel's blue eyes bored into hers for a moment.

"Could I refuse aught that you ask?" he asked, finally.

Elanor choked, her body beginning to shake.

* * *

"Lady."

Her lip quivered.

The world swam.

 _Get it together, Elanor Ravenscroft._

Sighing, she dropped to her knees, bringing her gaze level with the hobbit before her.

"Samwise."

His brown eyes rested anywhere but her face, and he hung his head a little. Elanor took him gently by the shoulders.

"Samwise."

A flicker of acknowledgement.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, willing him to listen. "I'm sorry about Frodo."

His brow lifted for a moment.

" _I'm so sorry, Sam_. Please believe me, that it wasn't my fault, and that I would do _anything_ to bring him back."

 _Because, even though it wasn't my fault that Frodo died, it is my fault that you're now the Ringbearer. It's my fault you're having to bear the responsibility on this quest, and that goodness knows what is going to happen to you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

* * *

Readjusting her cloak, Elanor returned to her place amongst Elrond's household. Arwen glanced to her, and shifted slightly so that her arm brushed gently against Elanor's. Drawing her gaze, the Elf-woman sent her a look of such deep empathy that Elanor almost began weeping anew.

With last longing glances, the Fellowship turned their backs upon those waiting before Imladris. They crossed the bridge and wound slowly up the long steep paths that led out of the cloven vale of Rivendell; and they came at length to the high moor where the wind hissed through the heather. Then with one glance at the Last Homely House twinkling below them they strode away far into the night.

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 ** _Peditham hi sui vellen? -_ "May we speak as friends now?"**

 ** _Na lû n'i a-goveninc_ \- "Until we meet again."**

 ** _Mellon nin -_ my friend**

 ** _Brennil vuin_ \- beloved lady**

 ** _Hanar_ \- brother**

* * *

 **This is a far shorter chapter than the ones I have uploaded previously. Mostly because I felt somewhat wearied of the 5,000 word ones I have been composing and wanted to make this one chapter that focuses upon a single scene.**

 **It's also basically a #feelsvent, so please bear with me. The next chapter will be more informative, and focus more on actual events and not just me crying because seriously, if the Fellowship were filled with my friends, I would be devastated to see them go. :(**

 **Finwe**


	16. The weary road

**Chapter 16 - The Weary Road**

* * *

 **3rd January 3019 (Third Age)**

 _…it's even my birthday, and none of these people care… if I was at home… Tim…_

Elanor clenched her jaw to stop herself bursting into tears once more. Her forehead was creased with annoyance and she longed to lash out at anyone and anything.

 _You're being a petulant child_ , a motherly voice reminded her.

 _Oh yeah? You see how it feels, having no one around, and the weather horrible, and being cold, and lonely, and just wanting to go home…_

 _And hormonal. Don't forget hormonal._

 _How could I possibly forget that?_ came the sarcastic retort.

Scowling, she resisted the urge to stamp her feet upon the stone pavement. She would _not_ allow herself to stoop to tantrums. She was twenty-two years old, had survived being transplanted to a different universe… and she desperately wanted to lie kicking and screaming on the ground until someone paused to listen to her self-pity.

Regrettably—or, perhaps, fortunately—the terrace upon which Elanor sat was uncharacteristically still. The frosty January day had driven many Elves indoors, for whilst they were resilient to cold, they did not cherish the grim light caused by the low-hanging clouds. Elanor had ventured out merely to be contrary, after Indilwen had kindly suggested she stay by the fire.

 _Yeah, and now you're freezing half to death. Good life choices._

Her face twisted into an ugly pout. More than a week had passed since Christmas and the Fellowship's departure into the wild, and Elanor had been plagued by a fit of bad humour. She had avoided feasts, scorned company, and been downright irritable. Even Elrond's request that she dine with him the night before had been greeted with sullen refusal, a fact which she knew had bewildered and hurt her foster-father.

 _Well if he actually cared, he'd bother to come find me. My real dad would come find me._

Caught unawares, Elanor felt several tears slip down her cheeks before she could stop them. They half-froze to her face, deepening the chill in her bones. Despite a warm cloak, she was growing colder by the minute as she sat still in what easily could have been minus 10 degrees Celcius. It had never dropped below zero at home.

 _Home._

 _I want to go back!_ she screamed. _I hate it here, I want out! I just want out!_

Unsurprisingly, her internal screeching had little effect. The courtyard remained as it was, surrounded by barren trees and light scatterings of snow. From the inside of the house she could hear the sounds of laughter and revelry; Elladan and Elrohir had stirred themselves to be as merry as possible over Christmas and the New Year, despite the sombre mood which had fallen upon many of the household. Regardless her earlier resolve to spend more time with the twins, Elanor had been so cloaked by her own misery that she had exchanged no more than a few—barely—civil words with them.

 _You're acting like a complete and total brat. Do you think Elrond wanted a kid like this in his household?_

"I'm not a kid," she muttered, through gritted teeth. "I'm twenty-two."

"Twenty-two? A tender age, even amongst hobbits, Lady Elanor."

Angry and caught unawares, Elanor turned sharply to face the source of the voice. Bilbo Baggins stood to her right, having approached her from behind. The hobbit was also heavily wrapped, though he still shivered in the cold.

"Oh, you," Elanor said, feeling somewhat put out at the intrusion.

"Yes, 'tis I," came the cheerful reply.

She watched as Bilbo moved to take a seat beside her on the bench. He settled himself with a pleased sigh, before beginning to fill and light his pipe—evidently, he intended to stay.

Elanor sighed, wishing that he would go and leave her be. She did not want Bilbo's frank cheerfulness—or any kind of company, when she considered it. It was much more enjoyable to be alone with her gloomy thoughts.

Bilbo merely puffed on his pipe, as if it were a sunny Shire day and he had not a care in the world.

 _He's obviously out here to irritate me—he could smoke his pipe just as well inside!_ Elanor fumed, wishing he would go away. At length she became so frustrated by his silent presence that she burst out in annoyance.

"Look, Bilbo, I don't really want any company right now. Can't you go somewhere else?"

Quelling shame at her own abruptness, Elanor fixed him with an exasperated stare. Bilbo merely blinked, before smiling and taking another long draw on the stem of his pipe.

"I would love to oblige you, Lady, save that there is no other courtyard so sheltered from the icy wind. Lord Elrond would not have me venture into the harsher elements," he replied comfortably. Elanor could have sworn that his eyes held a merry twinkle as he uttered those words.

"Go inside then," she whined.

No response.

Rage boiled up within her. Aided and abetted by her feelings of despair and loneliness, the torrent of bitterness poured out in speech.

"Look," Elanor began, her tone icy. "I don't want to talk to anyone right now, or be near anyone, or see anyone. I want to go home. I hate it here—it's cold and damp and I would willingly cut off my own right hand to get back to my family. It's all a huge mistake, and I don't want any part of it, understand? And," her voice rising in volume, "I don't want to be pestered by some stupid hobbit either!"

Her veins coursed with anger, numbing her to the sight of Bilbo's hurt expression. She could feel the blood throbbing in her ears, and longed to open her mouth and shout incoherently until she had no voice left. Instead, she stared at the ground before her feet, overwhelmed by the bellowing voices in her mind.

 _I hate it here! I HATE IT!_

In her peripherals, Elanor saw the hobbit shift slightly and climb to his feet. He stood there for a moment, and she could almost imagine the look of quiet disappointment on his face.

"I take my leave, lady," he intoned coolly, before pattering away in a rustle of furs.

* * *

"Forgive me if I speak out of turn, my lord, but you ought to speak to her yourself." Erestor shrugged apologetically as he said these words, as if begging pardon for the blunt truth. Rather than anger, Elrond felt a rush of affection for his seneschal.

"Perhaps you are right, Erestor," he admitted, rising from his armchair and moving to sit at his desk, "and yet, I am reluctant to intrude. It is still but a short while since her arrival here, and the loss of her family. The grief in being parted from her companions may have spurred her to the threshold of her endurance."

As trustworthy as Erestor was, Elrond had refrained from informing him of Elanor's true origins; save for Glorfindel and Gandalf, all within Rivendell believed that Elanor's family had been killed in an orc-raid in the south.

The advisor nodded, acknowledging the truth of his words. "I do not doubt that the grief is still near to her heart. And yet—" He paused.

"And yet?" Elrond prompted.

Erestor shook his head and smiled wryly. "Forgive me Lord—it is not my place."

"Not your place to speak ill of one of my household?" the half-Elf chuckled. "Go on—I am not a blind father."

"I will say nothing further," Erestor maintained. "Though I would beg you to approach her. She secludes herself day and night, scarcely eating. She is polite only because her limited understanding of Sindarin forces her to be."

Elrond laughed again. "It is well, then, that Glorfindel was unable to proceed further with her education."

"Indeed." Erestor's expression saddened a little, for he was firm friends with the Elf-lord of Gondolin. The pair had long served Elrond's house, and were intimate with all within it. Elrond knew that Erestor felt the lack Glorfindel's presence as sorely as he did himself.

"I shall heed your advice, Erestor," he affirmed, smiling gently. "I thank you for your truthfulness."

Erestor bowed. "It is my duty, Lord."

After his seneschal had departed, Elrond sighed and wearily upon his desk. In truth, Elanor's behaviour had concerned and vexed him for some days. He had always believed her to be a steady, reasonable person, with wit and maturity beyond her years. Since the departure of the Company, however, she had been impudent and rude, scorning friendship and flouting civilities. None had spoken openly of her behaviour, but Elrond knew that Arwen and his sons were silently mystified by their foster-sister's childish behaviour.

 _It is indeed time to speak with the girl_.

Summoning a member of his staff, Elrond bid the Elf to seek out Elanor and bring her to him regardless of her wishes.

 _How shall she respond to an outright demand?_

 _I believe we shall discover that_ , he replied, grimly.

It was a full half-hour later before Elanor deigned to answer his summons.

She entered the study haughtily, and though her eyes were lowered Elrond caught glimpses of her harboured frustration. Wordlessly, she sat before him.

"I shall not mince words, Elanor," he informed her, realising that she would offer no speech. "You are not a child."

Her eyes flew to his face at this, flashing with barely-controlled anger.

"Aren't I? I'm expected to come to you like a child!"

"But days ago, you would have responded to such a summon with eagerness," Elrond spoke, his voice gentle. Her expression faltered a little at this, but she lifted her chin in defiance.

"So what?"

"Elanor!" he cried, exasperation in every line of his body. This was not the girl he had harboured such deep affection for, but a sulky child. "No orders shall I give you, for you are not under my command. And yet you act as if I wish you ill, as a young _elleth_ scarcely half-come to age! What is the meaning of this?"

Elrond had endeavoured to make his voice firm, and was filled with alarm when Elanor crumpled into tears before his eyes.

 _Did I speak too strongly?_

"Elanor," he repeated, reaching across the desk to touch her. Her face was upon his desk, her arms wrapped protectively about her golden head as she wept. "I am sorry, muin."

Sitting up, Elanor stifled a sob. "Don't apologise, Elrond, for it's all my fault. I've been awful, and rude, and an absolute nightmare to live with. I just—" Her sobbing intensified for a moment, and Elrond was deeply concerned. Never had he seen her so distraught and unreasonable.

"Calm yourself, iell, for none condemn you," he said soothingly, as he rose from his chair and moved to kneel before her, eyes searching her face. "What troubles you?"

Elanor allowed him to grasp her hands and took a shuddering breath. "Everything's messed up," she moaned. "They've—they've gone. The Fellowship. That's all I know, all I am familiar—the books, the—" She moaned softly. "What use is there for me here, ada?"

Elrond squeezed her hands, silently thanking Eru that he had listened to Erestor's advice.

"You are beloved amongst us, elen."

Elanor sighed. "I don't deserve it. And even if I did, I still have no purpose here—you're all Elves, and I'm a human. As soon as the quest is done—oh goodness, I hope it succeeds—Arwen and Aragorn will marry, and you and all the Elves—you'll go to Valinor." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I can't go home, ada. There's no way I will ever see my family again, you said yourself there was no way I could get out of here. And you—all of you—will leave, just—" hiccup "—just like the Fellowship."

 _So that is what troubles her…_

 _Do you not see in this moment an instance long ago, where a tall young adan stood before you, bemoaning his mortality?_

 _Aye…_ _that I could take them both to Valinor; but alas, for the Valar do not look kindly upon the Exiled, and would be less still inclined to favour us if we attempted to alter the will of Ilúvatar concerning the edain…_

 _But Tuor—_

 _Tuor was from a different age._

Elrond sighed, realising that the girl—like his other mortal charge—was indeed correct. He could not take her to the Undying Lands.

"And not only that, there are still so many things—things wrong with the quest, and—" Elanor had begun to cry again, "—and I never fixed them. I couldn't fix them, ada! I failed, if that was my job. I don't know what else I had to do here, because geez, I'm certainly no warrior." Elrond suppressed a smile. "Ada, Boromir shall die, and a whole other lot of stuff's going to go wrong, because I am a coward and couldn't think of anything to do about the Fellowship. I _failed_!" she cried, desperately.

Elrond breathed deep, overwhelmed by the magnitude of his daughter's concerns. His thoughts trailed off, swiftly replaced by others as his quick mind worked.

 _She is not without reason, for she has altered the course of Arda's history. And as she says, those who shall be most affected by her changes have passed beyond her reach…_

 _You always discerned that she would not remain in Rivendell…_

 _And yet I am reluctant to encourage her departure. She should fare poorly in the wild, even if she were in the company of those within the Fellowship…_

 _She may be vital to the success of the company, Elrond Eärendilion. Would you, once more, seek to place your desires above the good of Middle Earth?_

 _…I would not_ , he managed, a great weight settling upon his heart. _I am loath to place a burden upon her, for she is repulsed by such a thing. And yet, if I do not…_

Sighing, he took Elanor's hands between both of his. She had managed to calm herself, and the green eyes stared steadily into his own. She was not Elven-fair—nor would she ever be—though by the standards of Men she would be considered quite pretty. Tenderly, Elrond squeezed her fingers.

As if she read his thoughts, Elanor took a deep breath.

"You know that I have something else to do, don't you ada?"

Elrond gave the barest of nods, and she sighed in response. He could see that every part of her resisted, longed to remain in Imladris with her newfound family.

 _Alas, for she cannot remain. Her very presence in Arda signals something peculiar. If the quest were to fail, Elanor would feel the weight of responsibility for it's end._

Feeling exceedingly weary, Elrond wondered, _How am I to tell her?_

He was saved from this, however, as the girl observed him. Gradually, a sense of comprehension dawned upon her features, and she appeared to sink within her chair. Pressing her hands into his, she spoke with quiet resolution:

"When do I leave?"

* * *

 **Fortunately for me, I am having a relaxing weekend and have time to indulge in a big splurge of fanfic writing haha.**

 **I would really like your opinion, however, on where this story is headed; Elanor has just realised she can't stay in Rivendell and leave the Fellowship to their own ends, because she possesses so much of the responsibility for what happens to them.**

 **I have several questions I would *love* you guys to answer...**

 **1\. What do you think about Elanor leaving Rivendell to try and keep the Fellowship on track?  
** **2\. What do you think of Elrond's interactions with Elanor in this scene?  
3\. What do you think will happen when Elanor meets back up with her friends?**

 **The first question is the one I'm most interested in the answers for, however.**

 **Thanks again you all for the reviews and support! Much appreciated. :)**

 **Finwe \o/**


	17. Not all girls in Middle Earth must angst

**Chapter 17 - Not all girls in Middle Earth must angst**

* * *

 **Early February, 3019 (Third Age)**

Elanor sighed and planted her hands on her hips. Upon the bed before her was a haphazard pile of all of her worldly goods. Clothes, books and Elvish trinkets were all intermingled upon the blanket. Nearby was a pack, and even to her optimistic eye she was forced to acknowledge that but a small part of what she wished to take would fit within it.

Absently, she ran her hands over the liquid fabric of one of her gowns, knowing that such a luxury would not serve her on the road ahead. Reluctantly, she gathered all her dresses and returned them to the wardrobe.

 _I'll be back to get them one day_ , she promised herself, hanging the last one and turning away.

 _Just like you're going to see Tim and your family again?_

Elanor shook herself. She had a job to do.

Her lips resolutely pressed together, Elanor selected half a dozen serviceable tunics and shirts, some leggings and breeches, and as many pairs of socks and underwear as she could gather. Her nose wrinkled as she contemplated the bath-less weeks ahead of her.

 _Man, it'd better be warmer in the south, because I would rather swim in a creek than repeat that trip with Boromir…_

The prospect of leaving Rivendell's sanctuary was a distasteful one. Elrond's house was warm and comfortable, and Elanor smiled wistfully as she tucked a shirt into the pack. It had been several weeks since she had come to the conclusion that she couldn't stay in Imladris, and the interlude had been surprisingly enjoyable. She had liked Elladan and Elrohir more than she had dared to expect, whilst her friendship with Arwen had moved beyond the initial awkwardness. She liked the Elf-woman, finding her both light-hearted and serious in equal measure. Her happiness had not been complete, however, for with each laugh and shared understanding with Arwen, Elanor was reminded with a sharp pang of the sister she had left behind.

 _What would Georgia say if she saw you setting off into the wilds of Middle Earth by your own volition?_

Elanor paused. _She would be proud._

Placing the last of her clothes within the pack, she surveyed what space she had left. She did not know if she would have to carry provisions, but was equally sure there were some things she could not leave behind.

The remaining trinkets Elanor possessed were a clanging reminder of her two halves; of the old life that still made her chest ache, and the surreal feeling of contentment in her present existence. Her sister's books lay alongside a leather-bound journal that Elladan had given her, and the small torch she had neglected to discard beside a utilitarian knife which served as a pleasant reminder of her time spent with Legolas. Her phone was also there, though Elanor had not turned it on since she had first arrived.

As the weeks had slipped by, she had found herself clinging less desperately to her old ways, and had been startled by the willingness within to immerse herself in Rivendell.

 _It's all slipping away… Even the homesickness…_

 _Would it be so bad to stay here?_

She swept all of the bric-a-brac to the side a little roughly, frustrated that she had allowed herself to ask the question. She still had a week or two until Elrond would receive word from Galadriel and the Rangers would set out. Stowing her pack beneath her bed, Elanor removed the modern items from amongst the collection. The flowery case on her iPhone made her smile, so out of place amidst the medieval treasures.

On an impulse, she took it up. She knew it could well have run out of battery in the intervening months, but she held down the power button anyway. Apprehension fluttered in her stomach as she realised it had been over four months since she had seen the faces of her family.

 _I won't give it up… I won't let them go…_

The phone chimed as it turned on, and Elanor was startled by the unfamiliar sound.

She swallowed hard.

The lock screen glowed, and caused a lump to form in her throat. She stared at the photo on the display, seeing Tim's laughing face refreshed in her mind. The greyscale memory was renewed with colour and light, and her stomach clenched.

 _Oh gosh…_

And then the screen went dark, the battery spent at last. Elanor schooled her face to impassivity, though she watched the blank surface for a minute before she drew her eyes away.

 _This is my family now. My life is here._

She took a deep breath. As the last life seeped out of her iPhone, any hopes she had of returning to Australia died with it.

 _"How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on... when in your heart you begin to understand... there is no going back?"_

There was no going back.

The laughing image of Tim fixed firmly in her mind, Elanor moved to her desk drawer and placed the phone at the back, where Indilwen would not find it.

 _I'm Elanor Elrondiel._

She moved to the mirror fixed on her wall, gritting her teeth against a wave of emotion.

 _Don't cry. For heaven's sake, don't cry._

"I am Elanor Elrondiel."

The figure in the mirror seemed to grow in stature as she spoke the fateful words, and she squared her shoulders. Instead of a feeling of crushing grief, Elanor was struck by a surge of hope, and of purpose. She longed for Tim, and for her parents, and particularly for Georgia as she stood on the brink of adventure—but she knew that she wasn't going to see them again.

"This is my home now," she said firmly, switching to Sindarin.

She dressed as an Elf, spoke as an Elf, and claimed kinship with the Elves.

Her face broke into a rueful smile.

" _This is my home_."

* * *

Elrohir rolled his shoulders, limbering up his hard-knit muscles. Several metres away, his brother threw back his head and laughed. The elder son of Elrond was ever given to mirth, and in this he was joined by a golden-haired young woman, seated upon the grass nearby.

Elrohir raised a dark eyebrow at the pair of them.

"Truly, Elanor, you are a bad influence," he said, fixing her with a stare of mock-disapproval. The woman grinned in response.

"And truly, I want to see you both fight!" she laughed, leaning back upon her hands expectantly. "Go on now, both of you!"

Elladan smirked at his brother, raising the light staff he carried. "Carry on then, hanar."

Elrohir grinned in response, his own staff raised and at the ready. The sons of Elrond were so alike in stature and appearance that few could tell them apart outside their own family. Their physical prowess was perfectly matched, though where Elladan favoured a sword, Elrohir would choose a longbow. In a sparring match such as this, however, victory teetered on the edge of a knife.

Vaguely conscious of Elanor's form to his right, Elrohir advanced. He moved on the balls of his feet with the practiced ease of a warrior, eyeing his brother.

Elladan's countenance split in a wide smile once more. His cheerfulness was infectious, his constant jocularity tempered by Elrohir's more realistic outlook. Many opponents had been disarmed by Elladan's easy movements, believing him to be harmless.

Elrohir's lip quirked in wry amusement. Underestimating his brother was the last thing many had done before they perished.

Deciding that they had circled long enough, Elladan leapt forward, his staff held in a two handed grip as he charged straight at his twin. With lightning swiftness, Elrohir crouched and brought his own staff up to intercept the other, throwing Elladan's momentum off course. The elder was not undone, however; he correct himself with practiced ease and swung to the right. Elrohir parried, unable to suppress his own enjoyment at the physical contest.

Inwards and outwards they wove, moving fluidly from attack to defence. The world beyond Elladan's tall form blurred into insignificance for Elrohir, his dark brow lowered as he focused on the task at hand. The sharp _crack_ as the staffs met dimmed within his mind, both Elves moving with lightning swiftness.

Elladan blocked his brother with contemptuous ease, then released the staff with one hand. His fingers moved smoothly over the polished wood, twirling the thick instrument so it whipped in a tight circle back towards Elrohir's head.

 _Sevig chûr, hanar?_

Elladan merely laughed at his twin's determined expression. Grinning wickedly, he dropped his staff to the ground before his feet and sprang forward, crashing bodily into his brother. His arms whipped up to contain Elrohir in a sinewy embrace.

"This is no fair contest!" cried Elrohir in a strangled voice, as he lay pinned to the grass. The staffs had been discarded in Elladan's mad rush, and that personage was carefully repositioning himself on Elrohir's chest to better restrain him.

"Luck is not on your side today, brother!" Elladan crowed, raising his arms in triumph. Elrohir took advantage of the respite to buck wildly, tossing his twin off and swiftly gaining the advantage by pinning him face-down upon the lawn.

Elanor sung out in laughter, rising and coming over to survey her foster-brothers. Her eyes were crinkled in amusement, and she folded her arms as she looked down upon them.

From his vantage point, Elrohir grinned up at her.

"You look upon the victor of this contest, good sister!"

"Indeed," Elanor cried, "though I believe you ought to release Elladan." Elrohir glanced down at his brother's back. One of his hands rested carelessly on Elladan's raven head, pressing his face into the grass. He was beginning to struggle, kicking his legs fruitlessly and emitting groans of distress.

"Do you think so?" Elrohir inquired, half reluctant to relinquish his advantage.

Elanor chuckled, and he felt a surge of appreciation for the woman's sense of mischief.

Sighing dramatically, Elrohir rolled off Elladan's back. The latter sprang up, spluttering all the while. It was quite some time before he had managed to remove all of the grass from his mouth. Elrohir sprawled contentedly upon the grass, watching the developments with a pleased expression and anticipating the flood of indignation that would follow.

Shaking her head and laughing, Elanor sat beside him, swaddled warmly in her furs.

Where the other children of Elrond were dark, his foster-sister was as fair as a sunrise. Her skin was tanned a pleasant gold, a result of growing up in her peculiar homeland. Elrohir had spent much time amongst the Dúnedain rangers, and was familiar with the appearance of human women. He could not quite comprehend their notions of beauty, though considered his sister to be not unattractive by the standards of her own race. Nevertheless, he liked her upturned nose, wide eyes and laughing mouth. She was obliging and witty, and made a welcome addition to the company in Rivendell after Lord Glorfindel's departure.

"He's going to be tasting dirt all week," Elanor murmured, drawing Elrohir's attention. She was watching Elladan's coughing with a mixture of concern and amusement. He, for his part, was busy muttering and sending baleful glances in Elrohir's direction.

"Yes," he replied, in smug satisfaction.

"You wrong me greatly," Elladan cried, fixing an ill-used expression on his face as he strode over and sat down with his brother and sister. "Lady Elanor," he pleaded, shuffling towards her and bowing in mock servitude, "protect me, if you may, for this _ellon_ —" he waved his hand dismissively at Elrohir "—is without honour!"

Elanor laughed, a sound which to Elrohir encompassed all her light youthfulness. "You silly," she said affectionately, grasping Elladan's hand and squeezing it.

Elrohir smiled to himself, glad to observe the antics of the pair. Elanor's fleeting existence, scarcely more than two decades, was diminished by the long years that the sons of Elrond had lived—nigh on three millennia.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked, plucking at the thin layer of protection which covered Elladan's arms. "I'm freezing!"

Elladan merely shrugged. "My blood runs warm from exertion, and the Eldar are hardier than the younger Children of Ilúvatar."

"You are from the south, Elanor," added Elrohir, with a sympathetic smile. He remembered too well the sense of bitterness that Aragorn had expressed at being considered lesser than his Elvish foster-brothers—even by the simple virtue of his heritage. "It is far cooler to the north."

She conceded this with a cheerful nod, tugging her warm cloak closer about her body.

 _At least Elanor shall remain in the company of Arwen, for ada will not see either of them come to harm. She shall always be comfortable. Estel… he would not be cosseted so._

"Shall we go inside?" Elladan suggested, noting how cold Elanor had grown with sitting in the chill air.

Elanor nodded emphatically. The Elven brothers rose as one, exchanging looks of amused understanding. Elrohir reached to help Elanor to her feet, not in the least put out to oblige her. The small party ambled slowly in the direction of the house.

* * *

"I find I cannot understand you, sister," cried Elladan, with an astonished grin. "The finest of ada's wine before you, and you will scarcely touch it!"

Elanor smiled wryly in response.

 _You don't know the half of it, hanar…_

"I do not feel inclined to drink tonight, Elladan," she replied, taking up her goblet before he could pour anything into it. "Water shall do me well this evening."

Elladan seemed unable to grasp such a notion, before shrugging and topping up Elrohir's glass instead. Elanor marvelled at the Elvish tolerance for alcohol, though the twins were by no means excessive drinkers. Still, the potent wine they consumed would have inebriated an ordinary man in half the time.

Smiling into her tankard as she thought on a scene from _The Two Towers_ , Elanor glanced along the seated guests to where Elrond sat beside Arwen.

The family was seated at a table which held a dozen comfortably, in a dining room separate from Elrond's study. Elanor had been positioned at one end with the twins, whilst her foster-father and sister occupied the other. In between sat several senior members of Elrond's staff—namely Erestor and Lindir—as well as several others Elanor did not know. She spent much of her time with her new family, reluctant to leave their enthusiastic embrace to mingle with strangers in stilted Sindarin.

"Anírol mass?" she directed at Elrohir, knowing that Glorfindel would scold her for her lack of practice.

 _Eru willing, I'll be able to test it out on him in a few weeks…_

"Ma," laughed Elrohir, "Yes, I would."

"Are we returning to our native tongue, brother?" Elladan inquired, turning back from listening to Erestor speak with some of the others. His grey eyes flicked between them, and his expression held it's usual cheerfulness.

"Den iston," Elanor laughed.

"Ben iest gîn, neth."

At this, the pair broke out into a flood of Sindarin. They spoke quickly, adopting many of the colloquialisms and slang that she had yet to grasp.

"That is unfair!" cried Elanor, unable to prevent herself from chuckling nonetheless. They spoke with great animation, and from the words she managed to understand they were also uttering complete nonsense. Several of those seated further along the table turned to look at the sons of Elrond in a mixture of confusion and amusement. Lindir merely shook his head and laughed.

"Is this not what you desired, my lady?" Elladan grinned, attempting to appear astonished.

Elanor grinned back.

Having decided that they had wasted far too much time in tomfoolery, the twins fell to devouring their meal. Elanor had at first been amazed to find that the Elves were not as prim and proper at mealtimes as she had expected; they laughed as they ate, often breaking into song, and behaved like blithe children. In contrast to the Dwarves, however—she had eaten with Gimli and Glóin on more than one occasion—they were remarkably polite.

Running her gaze down the table as she savoured a slice of fresh bread, she was caught by Arwen's clear grey eyes. A slight smile graced her exquisite features, and Elanor felt her foster-sister's pleasure emanating even at a distance as she observed her family.

The Elf-woman inclined her head slightly, eyes sparkling a little, before turning back to the conversation between Elrond and another Elf.

 _This is as happy as you ever were at home, Elanor Ravenscroft,_ an inner voice reminded her smugly.

Unable to dispute such a statement, Elanor smiled in contentment.

 _I know._

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 _hanar_ \- brother

 _sevig chûr?_ \- are you ready?

 _ellon_ \- Elf-man, male Elf

a _nírol mass?_ \- do you want bread?

 _den iston_ \- I think so (lit. I know it)

 _ben iest gîn_ \- as you wish (lit. according to your wish)

 _neth_ \- sister

 _-iel -_ daughter of. (Just as "Thranduilion" means "son of Thranduil" and "Elrondion" means "son of Elrond", "Elrondiel" means "daughter of Elrond").

* * *

 **And there is Chapter 17.**

 **I decided that it was time for Elanor to be lighthearted again, to interact with people merely for the sake of interacting. Plus, a lot of the scenes are full of tears and angst and difficulties, and I wanted this one to be enjoyable. (Hence the title).**

 **Don't fear, for her adventures outside Rivendell will begin shortly. However, there is still time for her to enjoy her new life rather than rushing off like a mad thing into the wild as most heroines do.**

 **Anyways, I hope you all liked that!**

 **Please feel free to leave me a review, feedback is welcomed. :)**

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: what is your favourite non-Tolkien ship?**

 **Personally, mine would have to be Gilbert/Anne (Anne of Green Gables) or Anita/Arutha (Magician).**

 **Have a good day!**

 **Finwe**


	18. Fragments

**Chapter 18 - Fragments**

* * *

 **19th February, 3019 (Third Age)**

Sam surveyed the land about them with narrowed eyes. The fresh, gold light of dawn fell upon the grey landscape about them, unable to mask its desolate ugliness. The trees of Lothlórien had thinned and disappeared as they had journeyed south and east, leaving Sam with an uncomfortable feeling of exposure.

He bent down to retrieve his sleeping pallet, reassuring himself with the knowledge that no orc would escape the watchful eyes of Aragorn or the Elves. Nearby, Gimli was tending a small fire.

"Would ye like some breakfast, Master Sam?" the Dwarf asked, in his gruff yet kindly tone.

Sam merely nodded, bundling his belongings together and moving towards Gimli. The fare was fresh and fulfilling, as the Fellowship had replenished their supplies amongst the Elves.

"Thankyou," he said, accepting his breakfast and sitting down beside the Dwarf. The other members of the party were also beginning to stir, though Sam suspected that Legolas, Glorfindel and Aragorn had been awake for some time. Their sleeping pallets were empty, and the three stood slightly apart, deep in conversation. Heavy lines of grief and weariness had settled upon the company, for Gandalf's fall had shaken them beyond even the Golden Wood's capacity to heal.

And yet somehow, the two younger hobbits maintained a fair semblance of their usual boisterousness.

"Morning, Sam," called Pippin, cheerfully, and reached over and grabbed one of Merry's ears. His cousin yelped indignantly, drawing the interest of all of the members of the camp.

"Whadidya do that for?" groaned the young Brandybuck, sitting up and scowling.

"Mornin', Pippin," Sam grinned, unable to resist the good spirits of the other hobbits.

Merry rubbed his eyes vigorously. "Is that breakfast I smell?"

Gimli gave a low chuckle. "Aye, it is. Come and get it, you young rascals!"

* * *

The day was still new by the company broke camp. No one was in a hurry, for to hurry would hasten the moment in which a decision must be made.

A decision he must make, Sam realised.

For some days, he had been aware of a palpable tension within the Fellowship. It was evident that even Aragorn—faithful, dependable Aragorn—was indecisive about the course they must take. Boromir, he knew, would press for the company's journey to Minas Tirith. In fact, most of the others seemed to prefer such a course, save for Strider. He alone shared Sam's qualms.

Shaking his head, Sam clambered cautiously into the flimsy Elvish boat. Aragorn was already aboard, and held out a hand to steady him. Ahead, Boromir and Glorfindel were helping Merry and Pippin aboard their own boats, whilst Sam could hear Gimli grumbling to Legolas at the rear.

"All right, Sam?"

He turned to face Aragorn for a moment, his brow wrinkled slightly. The tall Ranger's grey eyes held deep-rooted concern. Sam shook himself and mustered up a smile.

"All right, Strider."

Seemingly satisfied, Aragorn guided the boat out into the swift current of the Anduin, idling a little to allow the others time to catch up.

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the familiar panic grip him as they left the security of the shore behind. Like most hobbits, he had a profound dislike of water, and of boats. He gripped the sides nervously. After a time he was able to open his eyes, but he would not relinquish his death grip on the edges of the vessel.

Aragorn did not hurry them on their course, instead allowing the boats to drift leisurely down the Great River. The western bank—upon which they had camped—was no longer dotted with trees, but flat and green. In many places it was covered in reeds, obscuring all view to the west. The eastern bank, by contrast, stretched away from the river in long, formless slopes. Sam felt his stomach shift uneasily as he watched the land drift by; the eastern slope was utterly desolate, devoid of life.

"Why is that," he murmured, his discomfort at being in the boat magnified as the disquiet of the eastern shore settled upon him.

"Sam?"

The hobbit turned hesitantly to face the rear of the boat, acutely conscious of it's movement as he shifted his weight. "The eastern shore. Why is it so… empty?"

Aragorn frowned pensively. His ordinarily grim face had grown further lines as they had journeyed south and east of Rivendell.

 _Particularly after Gandalf…_

Sam shuddered a little.

"I do not know what pestilence or war or evil deed of the Enemy might have left the region in its present state," Aragorn spoke, slowly. "And yet, my heart is filled with foreboding, as if the Enemy draws nearer as we speak."

"Mine too," Sam admitted, with a sigh.

His companion graced him with a close-mouthed smile. "Then let us hope we are both incorrect."

They sat in silence for a time, Sam's hands cramping as they journeyed on.

"Where are we, exactly?" he asked, risking another turn as curiosity got the better of him.

"You are looking now south-west across the north plains of the Riddermark, Rohan the land of the Horse-lords. Ere long we shall come to the mouth of the Limlight that runs down from Fangorn to join the Great River. That is the north boundary of Rohan; and of old all that lay between Limlight and the White Mountains belonged to the Rohirrim. It is a rich and pleasant land, and its grass has no rival; but in these evil days folk do not dwell by the River or ride often to its shores. Anduin is wide, yet the orcs can shoot their arrows far across the stream; and of late, it is said, they have dared to cross the water and raid the herds and studs of Rohan."

Sam looked from bank to bank uneasily. The trees had seemed hostile before, as if they harboured secret eyes and lurking dangers; now he wished that the trees were still there. He felt that the Company was too naked, afloat in little open boats in the midst of shelterless lands, and on a river that was the frontier of war.

 _Let us hope we are both wrong indeed, Strider._

* * *

Glorfindel guided his boat with a skilful hand, sweeping through the current in the narrow vessel. He had adapted to the leaf-shaped paddles with ease, and handled the boat of Lothlórien as well as any of that land.

Before him sat the hobbit Merry, uncharacteristically quiet without the company of his other half. Glorfindel was rather thankful for the silence, save the sound of running water. He steadied the boat mechanically, glad to release his thoughts to wander.

The Elf's heart was heavy within his chest, for the departure from the Golden Wood did not sit well with his _fëa_. He had longed to remain, grieving the loss of Mithrandír with others of his race.

Their songs of mourning still echoed painfully in his mind.

 _Well_ , he thought, grimly _, at least I know now the cryptic meaning of Elanor's words… and the importance of her warning concerning Boromir._

His fair brow lowered as he studied the man in the boat in front. Boromir carried Pippin with him, and something about his posture filled Glorfindel with trepidation.

 _Would that Elanor had told me the circumstances of the man's doom!_

Often that thought had strayed into Glorfindel's consciousness, and often had he wished that Elanor had spoken more explicitly about Boromir's demise. She would not, he was certain, place a burden upon him without great need; yet still he felt the crushing weight of responsibility for the man's life.

 _I shall not fail her._

Sighing wearily, he turned his paddle to guide their boat after the others.

The time Elanor had prophesied drew near, and he was as close to discovering a solution to saving Boromir as Sam was to destroying the Ring.

* * *

 _…Aragorn shall be in need of his kindred ere long…_

"Ada?"

The quiet interruption startled Elrond out of his reverie. Blinking rapidly, his gaze fell upon the figure of his golden-haired foster-daughter, standing nervously in front of him.

"Elanor," he smiled, rising from his armchair and embracing her. "Forgive me; I was buried deep in my thoughts."

She smiled back, before sitting down on a chair nearby and fixing him with her sea-green gaze.

"What is troubling you, ada?"

"I have just received word from the Lady Galadriel of Lórien," he began. As he spoke, a look of comprehension and of excitement flittered across Elanor's features, swiftly suppressed. "But I see you know of this already, muin?"

Elanor gave a light laugh. "You should cease to marvel at the knowledge I posses, father. I have expected such news for quite some time."

"Then I suppose you could recount the message to me?" Elrond responded, a playful note in his voice despite the troubles in his heart.

"Easily."

Elrond raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"Lady Galadriel advises that Aragorn is in need, ada. And you shall call upon the Rangers of the North, with your sons accompanying them."

 _If I ever doubted her, she has proved herself countless times_ … _Were it not for that book of hers, I should believe her gifted with great foresight…_

 _Like yourself?_

 _Perhaps…_

 _And yet you are fearful at the idea of allowing her to journey forth._

 _I should not allow Arwen to do as much; why Elanor?_

 _Elanor is not of Arda, nor is she my kin._

 _Is she not, Elrond son of Eärendil?_

Smiling slightly and pushing aside his thoughts, Elrond nodded. "You are correct, iell. I suppose you shall now inform me that it is your time to journey forth also?"

The words hung heavy in the air.

Elanor hesitated, before holding out her hands in a helpless shrug. "I have done all I can for the Fellowship, but I still feel as if I need to be… involved, somehow. Do not say I must convince you all over again, ada!"

"No, Elanor. I do not believe you will come to harm in the company of your brothers. And yet—" He broke off, uneasy. Fixing her with his eyes, he spoke gently. "What shall you do, daughter? You have little direction, and are largely defenceless. I do not doubt your fortitude or your wisdom—"

"I know, ada—I'm only a human woman with very little weapons training," she supplied, with no hint of bitterness. "I understand that. But I will be with Elladan and Elrohir, and a company of thirty Dúnedain. We shall arrive in Rohan, where there shall be countless warriors whom shall provide protection. I will never be alone or defenceless." She placed one small hand upon his. "I don't want to hurt you, because if the war was not on I would be content to stay in Rivendell forever. But I am not of this world—I was sent here for a reason, and I would know why."

Elrond's lips twisted.

"And still I am reluctant to let you leave."

Elanor nodded. "I know."

Silence fell for a moment. Elrond warred with his emotions, his calm facade disguising a tumultuous contest within. If Elanor were correct, Arwen would leave his side within the year to be wedded to Aragorn, and he should travel over the sea. His sons would remain, for a time, but would ultimately join their father and mother in Valinor.

 _And here stands your daughter in all but blood, whom you must also lose because of her mortality. A bitter cup stands before me._

"And even with all of your understanding, you cannot foresee your role in events?" he inquired, at length.

Elanor merely shook her head. "I won't lie to you and say that I have a great sense of duty or responsibility. All I know is that I cannot stay here, waiting for the summons that will take you and Arwen to Minas Tirith."

There was a resoluteness to her voice as she said this, her shoulders straight and chin thrust outwards ever so slightly.

Elrond smiled ruefully, knowing the words would taste bitter upon his tongue: "I will not prevent you going, daughter."

Elanor sprang forward in an impulsive hug. Her golden curls pressed against his mouth, smelling of fresh spring flowers.

"Thankyou, dad," she murmured into his shoulder.

Elrond wrapped her close against his chest, and did not release her for some time.

* * *

The courtyard was filled with the steamy breath of man and horse. The ground was hard and frosty, though the air was mercifully still. Dawn had come, though the light had yet to slip over the tall mountains which surrounded the Valley of Rivendell.

Elanor stood beside her mount, a proud chestnut gelding—Fundanár, the Elf in the stables had informed her. He nuzzled Elanor, his liquid eyes blinking at her curiously. Like all the Elvish horses, he had a fine-feature face, high withers and a deep chest. His legs were clean and elegant, and he reminded Elanor of a thoroughbred. Something about the set of his head was hardier than the graceful racehorses of her home world, however, and she knew he would carry her long and swift.

All about her stood the mounts of the Dúnedain; stocky, coarse-haired horses all, though Elanor had long ago learned not to judge a horse by it's appearance. The hardy Ranger mounts attracted less of her interest than the riders themselves.

The arrival of the Dúnedain had piqued Elanor's interest. These were the only humans she had encountered, save Boromir and Aragorn, and they had not appeared in Peter Jackson's films.

She had been in counsel with her foster-father when Erestor had announced the arrival of Halbarad, their leader.

He struck her immediately with his resemblance to Aragorn, possessing the characteristic black hair and grey eyes she had come to associate with the Noldor and their mortal kin. He appeared just shy of middle-aged, and Elanor wondered if he was as long-lived as the future king of Gondor and Arnor. The rest of the company was of varied ages, though all appeared as stern and deadly as their leader.

 _Not to mention tall!_

Elanor grinned into Fundanár's shoulder, feeling extremely small amidst the six-foot-plus crowd loitering in the crisp morning air. Several metres away she observed her brothers; Elladan and Elrohir stood mightier than all the men around them, darker of hair and fairer of face than the descendants of Elros. They stood together in silence, almost perfectly identical and bearing a strong resemblance to their sire. Elanor prided herself on being able to tell them apart, though it had taken her over a week to correctly note the almost imperceptible differences between them.

Across the courtyard, Elrond engaged in quiet conversation with Halbarad. He and Arwen had farewelled all three of the adventurers in private, for which Elanor was glad. She had never been able to abandon the demonstrative ways of her world, and did not want to expose herself in front of the sombre company that had gathered. Her heart faltered a little as she felt again the tight embrace of her foster-father.

 _"Come back to me, muin."_

 _"I will, ada."_

She thanked Eru that she didn't have to farewell Elladan and Elrohir also.

"Lady Elanor?"

Turning away from Fundanár's chestnut hide, Elanor sought out the one who addressed her.

"Yes?"

The Ranger standing before her was characteristically tall, though his brown hair was lighter than that of his kin. His eyes were faintly blue, and he was the youngest person she had encountered in Middle Earth. He grinned at her in a boyish fashion, affirming her immediate liking of him.

"My name is Eärendur, lady. I was bidden to accompany thee by the lords Elladan and Elrohir, your brothers, as they shall be occupied in counsel with Halbarad." He spoke respectfully, but Elanor couldn't help but notice the unveiled curiosity on his face. The Elves of Rivendell rarely fostered Edain in this age, and she was sure that the young Ranger wondered at her position and significance.

 _Not to mention the fact that a woman is going with them on the journey south. I'm sure that turned some heads!_

Smiling, Elanor nodded in reply. "Thankyou, Eärendur. I would enjoy hearing some tales of your homeland."

The Ranger was prevented from speaking again by a sharp whistle. The company sprang into action about Elanor, as the tall grey-cloaked figures mounted their shaggy horses. Eärendur gestured towards Fundanár, and Elanor gratefully accepted his aid to vault into the saddle. She had been permitted to abandon her dresses for the journey, but was much hampered by her thick cloak and many layers. The young man held her stirrup politely before seeking out his own horse, a nondescript bay.

Elladan and Elrohir guided their horses to the head of the party, alongside Halbarad. Their father stood upon the stairs, and the Ranger exchanged a few last words with the Elf-lord before urging his horse towards the gate.

The company filed out of the courtyard at a brisk walk. The steady clopping of hooves rang out in the still morning. As they passed the steps upon which Elrond stood, Elanor braved a glance at her foster-father. He stood proud and lordly as ever, though his grey eyes lingered upon her with sadness.

As much as Elanor desired to be part of the coming adventures, she could not prevent the torrent of emotion which afflicted her. Rivendell had fostered her for many months, weathering her most petulant storms and tantrums. It had seen her come to terms with remaining in Arda, and with calling Elrond _father_.

 _Inconvenient things, feelings._

 _Aye._

And as Elrond watched her, a wistful smile playing at his lips, Elanor knew that she was not the only one who felt the pain of their parting.

Her foster-father was soon lost to sight, and she breathed deeply as they passed beyond the borders of the Last Homely House. She gritted her teeth to prevent the spilling of tears. This was what she had wanted, something she needed to do.

Eärendur nudged his mount forward, drawing alongside Fundanár.

"How long have you dwelt in Imladris, Lady Elanor?" he inquired.

Muttering stern internal warnings to her tear ducts, Elanor turned to smile at her new companion.

"Since last October. Lord Elrond fostered me after I lost my parents and sister."

Eärendur's countenance was twisted in anguish as he realised he had stumbled upon some tender information.

"Lady Elanor, I must—"

"Don't apologise," she smiled gently, for the wound did not sting as much as it used to, and the awkward boyishness of the Ranger was surprisingly refreshing. "It is not your fault."

The young man looked suitably chagrined, and blushed into his horse's mane. He appeared at a loss for a new topic of conversation, and Elanor took advantage of the short silence to scold her emotions into submission.

 _This is an adventure. I will not sit idle until the Ring is destroyed. I will do my part. I won't shirk from my duty._

She breathed deep, willing her thoughts back to the raven-haired Elf-lord who lingered upon the steps.

 _And ada… I will come back._

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

Fundanár - means "thundering fire" (or close enough). I made it up myself so I apologise if any of you are masters of the Elvish languages and I have desecrated grammar.

Eärendur - refers to three characters in the Tolkienverse; the second son of a Númenorian King, the fifteenth Lord of Andúnië, and the tenth and last King of Arnor. I chose this name because many of the characters in Middle Earth have a namesake, and I struggled to come up with a suitable name for the young Ranger who shall (spoiler alert!) feature in this fic. We have so many sage and world-weary Elves—I thought it time Elanor interacted with someone as fresh-faced and naive as herself!

* * *

 **Chapter 18! And we're well over 50k words now.**

 **This was a progressive chapter; time for the plot to thicken once more. The Fellowship travels down the Anduin, whilst Elanor manages to orchestrate her departure from Imladris. I decided Elrond would not let her leave with anyone less than his sons, and she becomes swept up in the journey south with the Rangers to meet Aragorn and co. in Rohan.**

 **Hope you liked it!**

 **Finwe ^_^**


	19. The Great River

**Chapter 19**

 **An important notice on dates: I have been following the LotR timeline with regard to dates. When I list dates, it is to give you a point of reference for the story. In this chapter there is one jump-back; I will elaborate more below, so if you are confused scroll down and I will explain.**

 **DISCLAIMER: some portions of this chapter are taken directly from Tolkien's _Fellowship of the Ring_. These are his words, and I claim no credit for his characters or plotline.**

* * *

Pippin shifted uneasily within his boat. Behind, he could hear Boromir muttering softly. The words themselves were drowned out by the sound of rushing water, for which he was rather glad. Nevertheless, the tone of the man's voice was enough to grate on his already frayed nerves.

For the last two days, the company had been borne steadily southwards, and as they moved closer to their destination, the feeling of disquiet amongst them had grown.

The River had broadened and grown more shallow; long stony beaches lay upon the east, and there were gravel-shoals in the water, so that careful steering was needed. The Brown Lands rose into bleak wolds, over which flowed a chill air from the East. On the other side the meads had become rolling downs of withered grass amidst a land of fen and tussock. Pippin shivered, thinking of the lawns and fountains, the clear sun and gentle rains of Lothlórien. There was little speech and no laughter in any of the boats. Each member of the Company was busy with his own thoughts.

The heart of Legolas was running under the stars of a summer night in some northern glade amid the beech-woods; Gimli was fingering gold in his mind, and wondering if it were fit to be wrought into the housing of the Lady's gift of three silver-gold hairs. Merry appeared most at ease, sitting before Glorfindel, whose mind strayed amidst memories of home.

Turning to observe those behind him, Pippin caught a queer gleam in Boromir's eye, as the man peered forward at Sam and Aragorn in the lead boat. Sam had long ago made up his mind that, though boats were maybe not as dangerous as he had been brought up to believe, they were far more uncomfortable than even he had imagined. He was cramped and miserable, having nothing to do but stare at the winter-lands crawling by and the grey water on either side of him. Even when the paddles were in use they did not trust Sam with one.

As dusk drew down on the fourth day, Pippin was looking back over the bowed head of Boromir and those in the following boats; he was drowsy and longed for camp and the feel of earth under his toes. Suddenly something caught his sight: at first he stared at it listlessly, then he sat up and rubbed his eyes; but when he looked again he could not see it any more.

* * *

That night, the Fellowship camped on a small eyot close to the western bank. Pippin busied himself spreading out his blankets beside those of Sam and Merry. The hobbits were staunchly loyal to each other, and Pippin wished he were able to ride in one of the other boats. Having only Boromir for company was beginning to wear on him, and he envied the others their companions.

Merry had seated himself upon his bedroll, and was busy inspecting one of his toes. Sam lingered nearby, his expression weary. The journey was taking a toll on the usually-cheery hobbit.

"I had a funny dream just before we stopped today," Pippin said, slowly. He kept his voice soft, for Boromir and Aragorn were busy not far away. "Or, perhaps, it wasn't a dream. It was peculiar, anyway."

"Well, what is it?" asked Merry, knowing that his cousin would not rest until he had voiced his concerns. Hearing the remarks, Sam moved closer and sat down beside the others.

"It was like this; I saw a log with eyes!"

"The log's all right," said Merry, "There are many in the River. But leave out the eyes!" He grinned and gave Pippin a gentle pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure you imagined it, Pip."

"That I did not," cried Pippin, with indignant finality. "Twas the eyes as made me sit up, so to

speak. I saw what I took to be a log floating along in the half-light behind Gimli's boat; but I didn't give much heed to it. Then it seemed as if the log was slowly catching us up. And that was peculiar, as you might say, seeing as we were all floating on the stream together. Just then I saw the eyes: two pale sort of points, shiny-like, on a hump at the near end of the log. What's more, it wasn't a log, for it had paddle-feet, like a swan's almost, only they seemed bigger, and kept dipping in and out of the water. That's when I got rather startled, and rubbed my eyes. I meant to raise the alarm if it was still there, if I wasn't dreaming, because it was getting awfully close to Legolas and Gimli. But the eyes must've seen me, for when I looked again it wasn't there. I half thought I saw something dark shooting under the shadow of the bank, but no more eyes. I said to myself, 'Dreaming again, Peregrin Took'. But I've been thinking on it, and I'm not so sure. What do you make of it?"

Pippin glanced from Merry to Sam.

"I didn't see anything of the kind," said Merry, slowly, "but perhaps I missed it."

"I should make nothing of it but a log and the dusk and sleep in your eyes Pippin," put in Sam, "if this was the first time that those eyes had been seen. But it isn't. I saw them away back north before we reached Lórien. And I saw a strange creature with eyes climbing to the flet that night. Haldir saw it too. And do you remember the report of the Elves that went after the orcband?"

"Ah," sighed Pippin. "I do; and I remember more too. I am afraid to say it, thinking of Bilbo's stories and all, but I fancy I could put a nasty name to the creature. Gollum, maybe?"

"That's what I'm right afraid of," Sam admitted. "I suppose he was lurking in Moria, and picked up our trail then; but I hoped that our stay in Lórien would throw him off the scent again. The miserable creature must have been hiding in the woods by the Silverlode, watching us start off!"

Merry frowned, hearing Sam's confirmation of his cousin's fears. "Well, that's about it then. We'd better be a bit more watchful ourselves, or we'll feel some nasty fingers around our necks one of these nights, if we ever wake up to feel anything."

"Do you think we ought to tell Strider or Glorfindel?" Pippin asked, feeling somewhat alarmed.

"No need to trouble them tonight. I'll keep watch. I can sleep tomorrow, being no more than luggage in a boat," Sam said.

"That's hardly fair," protested Merry. "Wake me after a few hours, and I'll rouse Pippin for the last watch. You shan't bear the burden alone, Sam. You're the Ringbearer, and we're part of your company."

Master Gamgee flushed pink at this, and mumbled something that sounded like "thankyou" under his breath. Pippin smiled, glad that his concerns had been heard. Sam was a stalwart friend, and, trickster that he was, Merry somehow seemed older and more responsible than he had in the Shire.

Feeling significantly more relieved, the hobbits parted company and moved about to help with the setting up of camp.

* * *

It was pitch-dark when Sam shook Merry awake.

"It's a shame to wake you, but that's what we agreed to," Sam said, mournfully. "There's nothing really to tell. I heard some sniffling, and a splash a while ago, but such sounds are hardly out of place by a river."

Merry smiled in return. "That's quite all right, Sam. Now you get off to bed! You must be dead on your feet."

Sam lay down upon his bed, whilst Merry shifted until he was sitting up. He had had several hours of good rest, and the fog of sleep swiftly retreated from his mind. He felt surprisingly awake and alert, though he did not risk lying down for fear he would drift back off.

After half an hour, Merry began to regret his earlier offer. It was chilly outside the comfort of his pallet, and the night was still and silent. He heard nothing that indicated Gollum was near.

 _Perhaps they imagined it after all… it is easy to imagine things when the land is so unnerving and we draw near to the enemy…_

He was just yielding to the temptation to lie down again when a dark shape, hardly visible, floated close to one of the moored boats. A long whitish hand could be dimly seen as it shot out and grabbed the gunwale; two pale lamplike eyes shone coldly as they peered inside, and then they lifted and gazed up at Merry on the eyot. They were not more than a yard or two away, and Merry heard the soft hiss of intaken breath. He stood up, drawing his Barrow-blade from its sheath, and faced the eyes. Immediately their light was shut off. There was another hiss and a splash, and the dark log-shape shot away downstream into the night.

Merry took a deep breath, his heart thudding in his chest.

 _Fancy that! Pippin and all his mischief… I won't forget those eyes in a hurry!_

Hearing noise, he turned. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and as he glanced at the rest of the company, he noticed Aragorn stirring in his sleep. The man, seeing Merry standing in the centre of the camp with his sword unsheathed, swiftly sprang to his feet.

"What is it?" he whispered, hurrying to Merry's side. "I felt something in my sleep. Why have you drawn your sword?"

"Gollum," answered Merry. "Or at least, so I guess. I have not seen him before, but he gave me the chills, and looks awfully as Bilbo and the others described him."

Aragorn nodded in understanding. "So you know about our little footpad, do you? He padded after us all through Moria and right down to Nimrodel. Since we took to boats, he has been lying on a log and paddling with hands and feet. I have tried to catch him once or twice at night; but he is slier than a fox, and as slippery as a fish. I hoped the river-voyage would beat him, but he is too clever a waterman. We shall have to travel faster tomorrow, for if I cannot lay hands on the wretch and make him useful, I wish to lose him."

Merry shuddered, feeling the hairs on his arms rising despite the fact that the wind had abated. Aragorn placed a large hand on the hobbit's shoulder.

"Lie down now, and sleep for what is left of the night. I shall keep watch, and catch Gollum if I may. He is dangerous. Quite apart from murder in the night, he may lead the enemy to our track."

Nodding mutely, Merry returned to his bed. The Ranger also moved to his pallet, but sat upon it, alert and wary. It was comforting, knowing that Strider was watching the camp.

Rolling over, Merry snuggled down into his bed. He had grown surprisingly used to sleeping outdoors, and found himself growing sleepy with pleasing swiftness.

As he teetered on the brink of darkness, a half-annoyed thought passed through his mind.

 _And Pippin didn't even have to do his share of the watch!_

* * *

 **22nd February, 3019 (Third Age)**

Elanor suppressed a groan as she sat up from her blankets. The brisk morning air carried clearly the sounds of the company stirring, and she realised with a start that most of the Dúnedain were up and dressed already.

Rubbing her eyes, Elanor threw back the rugs. It felt peculiar to sleep fully dressed, especially after her three month sojourn in Rivendell. She grimaced.

 _You've gotten soft, Elanor of Imladris!_

Her body hurt. They had only been on the road three days, and already she was beginning to feel the effects of long hours in the saddle. Halbarad had ordered frequent dismounts, during which the company had proceeded on foot leading their steeds. These had been shorter than Elanor would have liked, however; the Grey Company was to proceed with all haste to meet Aragorn in Rohan.

"Good morning," came a soft voice from her left shoulder. Turning, Elanor caught sight of one of her brothers. Blinking, she urged her foggy brain into gear and attempted to differentiate between the twins.

"Elladan," she managed, after a moment. The Elf was sitting upon his pallet, looking surprisingly at ease despite the chill and rocky ground. Her foster-brothers had taken it upon themselves to sleep on either side of her, several metres removed from the rest of the company. It was a meagre form of privacy, but she greatly appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"Did you sleep well, sister?" he inquired, leaping catlike to his feet and offering her a hand. Elanor took it gladly, though she could not hide a wince as her sore leg muscles protested.

She laughed half-heartedly. "Well enough; at least, as best one can on such hard ground."

Elladan placed one gentle hand upon her shoulder. "You bear up well, Ellie," he smiled down at her. The nickname sounded strange in his lilting Elvish accent, but Elanor warmed at its use.

"I am trying, brother. Though I feel awfully soft compared to everyone else." She glanced around at the Rangers, moving like grim shadows in the early morning.

Elladan chuckled. "This is their livelihood. You are the foster-daughter of Elrond from afar," he said, lowering his voice. Elanor had disclosed her true origins to the brothers before their departure. "You have slowed the company very little, if at all; your horsemanship is good. You have never been exposed to such activities in your home world."

Flushing in pride at the comment, though knowing it was exceedingly generous, Elanor nodded. "Thankyou."

"Do not tarry in daydreams, however. Elrohir is already in counsel with Halbarad concerning the day ahead, and I should join them." Squeezing her shoulder once more, Elladan stepped lightly across her pallet and angled towards where his twin stood with the leader of the Dúnedain.

Elanor watched him leave before swiftly rolling up her bedding and returning all of her essentials to her pack. She could hear the horses snuffling nearby, and left her belongings in a neat pile. She would pack them about Fundanár's saddle after she had relieved herself.

The Grey Company camped in a cluster about a small campfire, built for cooking meals and with regard to being inconspicuous. The Rangers bustled about, beginning to saddle their mounts and strapping bedrolls and food supplies to the sturdy horses.

Elanor knew that the sentries were positioned at regular intervals about the camp. To the best of her knowledge, one should be positioned to her left, within the small copse of trees which bordered the campsite. Making sure that her belongings were ready to go, Elanor struck out where she thought the Ranger was positioned.

"Hello?" she called out, moving openly into the copse.

"Up here, Lady Elanor," came a cheerful voice. A young Ranger, a friend of Eärendur's, seemed to materialise upon a tree branch. She had still to come to terms with their uncanny ability to blend in with their surroundings. The dark-haired man gave her a cheerful wave.

"I am going for a walk, I shall not be long," she informed him, adopting her best regal air. Amongst the Dúnedain she was treated as befitted a daughter of a noble house, and it was both pleasing and bewildering.

"As you wish, lady. Call if you are in need of anything," he said, with another smile.

Elanor moved calmly through the copse until Eärendur's friend was out of sight, and found a tree to shelter her. The lack of plumbing was no less distasteful than it had been on her journey with Boromir, and she felt a little disgruntled as she finished and straightened her attire. The clothing Indilwen had provided her consisted of warm breeches, a soft woollen shirt, and a tunic which fell to below her knees to preserve her modesty. It had convenient splits and seams to allow her to ride Fundanár comfortably. She had been pleased to discover that Elves did not require their womenfolk to wear dresses at all times, but couldn't help longing for her blue Kathmandu snow jacket and thermals.

Ten minutes later, she returned to the campsite. The fire had been doused, and the horses retrieved from their picket lines. As she heaved her saddle and pack onto her shoulder, Elrohir moved towards her leading Fundanár by the mane.

"You shall have to eat in the saddle, nethig," he informed her, releasing the chestnut gelding.

"Don't I do that every day?" Elanor laughed, reaching out to take the leaf-wrapped parcel her foster-brother held in his other hand. Hithraur, the designated cook within the company, had taken to setting aside her portion after she had slept through breakfast the first day and been starving until lunchtime.

Elrohir smiled at her. "Do you need help saddling Fundanár?"

"No thankyou," she replied, tucking her breakfast away and beginning to slip the bridle over her mount's head. With a wordless nod and small smile, Elrohir strode away.

 _He is quieter than Elladan_ , she mused, fastening Fundanár's bridle and moving to the saddle. _More contemplative, and brooding. Elladan is always cheerful, though I do not love Elrohir any less for his silence and seriousness._

The scouts had returned by the time Elanor had finished with her horse, and the call to mount up was given. Elladan and Elrohir had taken their customary positions beside Halbarad, and she glimpsed Eärendur's fairer head moving towards her.

Elanor climbed wearily into the saddle, wanting to be settled before her companion arrived. She felt far more in control of herself than when she had first arrived in Middle Earth, but could not stem the memories of those first few weeks.

 _…bellowing wind… her body wracked with shivers… Boromir hunched several metres away, chewing moodily on his rations… hunger pangs… eyes smarting…_

She gritted her teeth.

 _This is different. I have plenty to eat, a bed to sleep on… and my brothers…_

The thought brought a smile to her face, lingering as Eärendur drew his bay to a halt beside Fundanár.

"Good morning, Lady Elanor," he smiled, as light-hearted as his friend. "Are you ready to embrace a new day?"

Elanor laughed. "Do I have a choice, Eärendur?"

* * *

The days dragged slowly by, as painful as Elanor's memories of skipping barefoot upon a scorching Australian pavement. As the first week of travel drew to a close, she felt a mounting sense of listlessness and frustration. She had struggled to ascertain their estimated time of arrival from either of the twins, and the prospect of the journey stretching out indefinitely was not a pleasant one. Her tolerance for the difficulties of camping had plummeted to an almost non-existent level, and she was beginning to contemplate turning back for Rivendell alone.

As often as she reminded herself they would be in Rohan soon enough, she could not quell the sharp rushes of petulant frustration which threatened to erupt whenever she encountered hardship. It was childish, she knew, but the serenity which had fallen upon her in Rivendell was blown away like tatters in the strong north wind. The food was boring, her bed unbearably uncomfortable, and even riding Fundanár—whose paces were smoother than glass—caused her to fume internally.

Elladan and Elrohir seemed too preoccupied to notice her diminished patience, and it took all Elanor's self-control to maintain an air of friendliness towards Eärendur.

The young Ranger had proved himself a pleasant companion, being both light-hearted and sage. He chatted with her easily, happy to speak or allow the silence to endure. On the fifth day, he ventured to question her about her past.

"I do not wish to intrude upon your privacy," he began, "but I would ask you one thing, Lady Elanor."

"Yes?" Elanor replied, trying to take the bite out of her tone. The wind had picked up and she was sitting hunched over Fundanár's neck, thoroughly miserably and sorry for herself.

 _That is no reason to be rude to Eärendur though!_

"How is it that one of the _edain_ came to be counted amongst Lord Elrond's household?"

"A human you mean?" she sighed.

"Yea, lady."

"I was lost upon the road, and encountered Lord Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor the Steward. He led me to Imladris, where Lord Elrond took me in, for I was alone and friendless."

Eärendur paused. "I see."

Silence fell for a moment, and Elanor half wished she had been more forthcoming with information. Her explanation seemed unnecessarily short and touchy in retrospect.

"I had some connection with Elrond's household," she proffered, at length. "I spent much time conversing with him… the history of Arda… I carried knowledge from the south…" She shrugged, unsure how to explain things without lying outright. "He has been very kind to me. They all have."

Eärendur grinned at that. "Aye, for the Lords Elladan and Elrohir dote upon you as if you were indeed their sister."

Mustering all her reserves of good manners and breeding, Elanor smiled at him. "They are the brothers that I lacked in my homeland."

"From whence do you hail, my lady?"

"Far, far to the south; it is called the Queen's Land by my people," she informed him, sticking to the story she had invented about her homeland whilst dwelling amongst the Elves. "Australia" sounded far too exotic to the people of Arda.

"I have never heard of it, though I know painfully little of the lands to the south," Eärendur admitted. "You claim a connection with Lord Elrond, however; can it be possible that some of our kin travelled to your lands? That the blood of Númenor runs in the far south?"

"I'm afraid not. My people are allocated a normal span of years, less than a century." Elanor turned to look at his profile, noting the straight nose, stubble-dusted jawline and walnut-brown hair. "And yet your people are fated to live twice that, unless I am mistaken."

"The longevity of Númenor is not allotted to all, Lady. The line of Elros is almost spent, mingling with the shorter-lived houses of Men."

Elanor hesitated, wondering if it were impolite to ask if Eärendur if he was of the noble house. He seemed to read her silence, however.

"My father's father was Dírhael, descendant of the First Chieftain of the Dúnedain," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "I am the son of Mithon, who is the brother of Gilraen."

Elanor's eyes widened as the cogs worked within her mind.

 _And Gilraen is…_

"Gilraen, wedded to Arathorn II, and the mother of Aragorn. She is my father-sister, and Aragorn son of Arathorn is my cousin."

 _He's in the line of kings…_

"I see," she replied. She glanced at him once more, struck by a sense of her own mediocrity.

 _I may have been adopted into the noble house of Elrond, but if they knew my origins at home, a working class family… compared to Eärendur, who is part of a royal line…_

"And so you are blessed with long life," Elanor spoke softly, at length.

"How old would you perceive me to be, Lady Elanor?" he laughed brightly, looking over at her.

"If we were in my homeland… perhaps twenty, or a little more. I would guess that I am wrong in my estimate, however," she gave a small smile, "else you should not appear so smug."

"You speak the truth, for you are a half-score years incorrect, Lady Elanor; I am thirty."

 _Wow, these men age well._

"Thirty," she repeated, amazed once more.

"And you, lady? Or is such a question deemed unseemly in the Queen's Land?"

"Not at all," Elanor replied, dropping the reins onto Fundanár's neck and tugging her cloak tighter about her shoulders. "I am twenty-two."

At this time, another gust of wind struck, causing Elanor to grit her teeth against the cold and a flush of annoyance. It was time for the lunchtime break, and Halbarad signalled for the group to gather in a circle. Any feelings of good humour which conversation with Eärendur had engendered became swept away in the biting breeze.

 _Oh gosh, what I'd give to be back in Imladris, reading in Elrond's study…_

* * *

 **23rd February, 3019 (Third Age)**

Merry woke groggily as the sun was setting in the west, his body unused to their nocturnal activities. The Fellowship had fallen into a routine, and the daylight hours passed with little distinction from those before them. Aragorn had bidden that the company travel by night following the incident with Gollum, and they had seen neither hide nor hair of the skulking creature.

The country on either side began to change rapidly as they climbed within the boats that evening. The banks began to rise and grow stony. Soon they were passing through a hilly rocky land, and on both shores there were steep slopes buried in deep brakes of thorn and sloe, tangled with brambles and creepers. Behind them stood low crumbling cliffs, and chimneys of grey weathered stone dark with ivy; and beyond these again there rose high ridges crowned with wind-writhen firs. They were drawing near to the grey hill-country of the Emyn Muil, the southern march of Wilderland.

There were many birds about the cliffs and the rock-chimneys, and all day high in the air flocks of birds had been circling, black against the pale sky. As they had lain in their camp that day Aragorn had watched the flights doubtfully, wondering if Gollum had been doing some mischief and the news of their voyage was now moving in the wilderness. Later as the sun was setting, and the Company was stirring and getting ready to start again, he descried a dark spot against the fading light: a great bird high and far off, now wheeling, now flying on slowly southwards.

"What is that, Glorfindel?" he asked, pointing to the northern sky. "Is it, as I think. an eagle?"

"Yes," replied Glorfindel. "It is an eagle, a hunting eagle. I wonder what that forebodes."

"It is far from the mountains," remarked Legolas, coming to stand beside the golden-haired Elf-lord.

"We will not start until it is fully dark," said Aragorn.

Merry turned to glance at Sam, who had also observed the exchange. He looked uneasy, and Merry found the uncertainty on his companion's face mirrored in his own heart.

* * *

The eighth night of their journey came. It was silent and windless; the grey east wind had passed away. The thin crescent of the Moon had fallen early into the pale sunset, but the sky was clear above, and though far away in the South there were great ranges of cloud that still shone faintly, in the West stars glinted bright.

"Come!" said Aragorn. "We will venture one more journey by night. We are coming to reaches of the River that I do not know well: for I have never journeyed by water in these parts before, not between here and the rapids of Sarn Gebir. But if I am right in my reckoning, those are still many miles ahead. Still there are dangerous places even before we come there: rocks and stony eyots in the stream. We must keep a sharp watch and not try to paddle swiftly."

To Sam in the leading boat was given the task of watchman. He lay forward peering into the gloom. The night grew dark, but the stars above were strangely bright, and there was a glimmer on the face of the River.

It was close on midnight, and they had been drifting for some time. Sam rubbed his eyes sleepily, fighting back drowsiness. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of dark shapes looming only yards away within the stream, and he cried out. He felt the boat lurch as a swift-moving current carried them towards the clear eastern shore, and he clutched protectively at the gunwales. The boats were thrust together, paddles tangling as the men and Elves guiding them attempted to win free.

"Hoy there, Aragorn!" shouted Boromir, as his boat thudded dully into the former's. "This is madness! We cannot dare the Rapids by night! But no boat can live in Sarn Gebir, be it night or day."

"Back! Back!" cried Aragorn. "Turn! Turn if you can!" He drove his paddle into the water, attempting to turn the boat and hold it's course away from the eastern shore. Eventually, they managed to turn the boats, but despite their vigorous paddling, they could not win any headway against the current.

"Paddle!" came the clear voice of Glorfindel, and Sam heard Aragorn bid him to add his oar to the mix. The hobbit had spent little time guiding the boat, for he was quite hopeless with a paddle. Now, however, he thrust in his oar with great enthusiasm, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

They could make little ground, and were being driven nearer and nearer the eastern bank, where lay the shoals. Sam felt the bottom of their boat grate upon stone and began to paddle with renewed vigour.

At that moment there was a twang of bowstrings: several arrows whistled over them, and some fell among them. One smote Sam between the shoulders and he lurched forward with a cry, letting go his paddle: but the arrow fell back, foiled by his hidden coat of mail which kindly Bilbo had bestowed upon him. Another passed through Aragorn's hood; and a third stood fast in the gunwale of the second boat, close by Merry's hand. Sam thought he could glimpse black figures running to and fro upon the long shingle-banks that lay under the eastern shore. They seemed very near.

" _Yrch_!" said Legolas, falling into his own tongue.

"Orcs!" growled Gimli, his gravelly shout carrying over the sound of rushing water.

"Gollum's doing, I'll be bound," muttered Sam. "And a nice place to choose, too. The River seems set on taking us right into their arms!"

Every moment they expected to feel the bite of black-feathered arrows. Many whined overhead or struck the water nearby; but there were no more hits. It was dark, but not too dark for the night-eyes of Orcs, and in the star-glimmer they must have offered their cunning foes some mark, unless it was that the grey cloaks Of Lórien and the grey timber of the elf-wrought boats defeated the malice of the archers of Mordor.

Stroke by stroke they laboured on. In the darkness it was hard to be sure that they were indeed moving at all; but slowly the swirl of the water grew less, and the shadow of the eastern bank faded back into the night. At last, as far as they could judge, they had reached the middle of the stream again and had driven their boats back some distance above the jutting rocks. Then half turning they thrust them with all their strength towards the western shore. Under the shadow of bushes leaning out over the water they halted and drew breath.

Legolas laid down his paddle and took up the bow that he had brought from Lórien. Then he sprang ashore and climbed a few paces up the bank. Stringing the bow and fitting an arrow he turned, peering back over the River into the darkness. Across the water there were shrill cries, but nothing could be seen.

Sam looked up at the Elf standing tall above him, as he gazed into the night, seeking a mark to shoot at. His head was dark, crowned with sharp white stars that glittered in the black pools of the sky behind. But now rising and sailing up from the South the great clouds advanced, sending out dark outriders into the starry fields. A sudden dread fell on the Company.

" _Elbereth Gilthoniel_!" sighed Legolas as he looked up. Even as he did so, a dark shape, like a cloud and yet not a cloud, for it moved far more swiftly, came out of the blackness in the South, and sped towards the Company, blotting out all light as it approached. Soon it appeared as a great winged creature, blacker than the pits in the night. Fierce voices rose up to greet it from across the water. Sam felt a sudden chill running through him and clutching at his heart; he crouched down, as if to hide.

Suddenly the great bow of Lórien sang. Shrill went the arrow from the elven-string. Sam looked up. Almost above him the winged shape swerved. There was a harsh croaking scream, as it fell out of the air, vanishing down into the gloom of the eastern shore. The sky was clean again. There was a tumult of many voices far away, cursing and wailing in the darkness, and then silence. Neither shaft nor cry came again from the east that night.

After a while Aragorn led the boats back upstream. They felt their way along the water's edge for some distance, until they found a small shallow bay. A few low trees grew there close to the water, and behind them rose a steep rocky bank. Here the Company decided to stay and await the dawn: it was useless to attempt to move further by night. They made no camp and lit no fire, but lay huddled in the boats, moored close together.

* * *

"Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand and eye of Legolas!" said Gimli, as he munched a wafer of _lembas_. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!"

"But who can say what it hit?" said Legolas, a frown creasing his dark brows.

"I cannot," admitted Gimli. "But I am glad that the shadow came no nearer. I liked it not at all. Too much it reminded me of the shadow in Moria – the shadow of the Balrog," he ended in a whisper.

"It was not a Balrog," put in Pippin, still shivering with the chill that had come upon him. "It was something colder. I think it was—" Then he paused and fell silent. As Sam looked across at him, he was reminded of their encounter with the Black Riders upon Weathertop; the clinging cold, the fearful screeching…

 _Mister Frodo…_

Turning away from the group to his bedroll, Sam lay down and closed his eyes.

 _Mister Frodo… I wish our times had been happier, that we dwelt yet in the Shire… that—_

He bit back the thought, hearing the low voice of Aragorn speaking to the rest of the company.

"Dark hides us now. But what the day will show who can tell? Have your weapons close to hand!"

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 _nethig_ \- little sister

 _lembas_ \- a type of Elvish bread (though I am sure you should all have heard of this!)

(If I have missed any Elvish words and you would like them translated for this list, please let me know via a review and I will amend the mistake.)

* * *

 **A NOTE ON DATES**

16th February - Fellowship leaves Lothlorien

19th February - scene from Chapter 18 set on this day as the Fellowship journeys south; Elanor goes with the Dúnedain south to meet Aragorn.

21st February - Pippin speaks to Merry and Sam about seeing Gollum.

22nd February - scene with Elanor waking and speaking to Elladan.

23rd February - the Fellowship is attacked by Orcs, led to them by Gollum; the back-tracked conversation by the Fellowship on the riverbank.

27th February - the jump-forward conversation between Elanor and Eärendur about the Dúnedain, his family, and her origins.

* * *

 **I hope that all is making sense to you guys with regards to the plot development, timelines, and characters! I am trying really hard to make the character reactions consistent with the books and believable, as well as true to themselves.**

 **I promise that from here in, the story will be less fragmented. However, seeing as this fic _is_ about Elanor, I feel as if I shouldn't have chapters that don't include her or her plotline. I am sure there will be some chapters during which she does not appear, but this is her story. She is not a Mary Sue, so other characters do function independently of her. However, I don't merely want to retell the story of the Fellowship or else I'll just be copy and pasting a lot of the books haha.**

 **Thanks for reading this far friends, and I hope you like this latest chapter!**

 **Finwe :)**


	20. Evenings by firelight

**Chapter 20 - Evenings by Firelight**

 **HAPPY 20TH CHAPTER GUYS! :D**

* * *

 **2nd March, 3019 (Third Age)**

Elanor gently drew Fundanár to a halt. The chestnut gelding responded promptly at her feather-light touch on the reins, and she patted him upon the neck. He had immense endurance, but was breathing heavily from the fast pace Halbarad had set.

"Well done, boy," she murmured, burying her hands in his coppery mane.

Darkness had fallen, draping the rolling countryside in soft dusk. They had entered the foothills of Dunland, having passed the Gate Stream of Moria several days before.

Elanor slipped her feet from the stirrups and raised one weary leg over Fundanár's rump. Clinging limply to the saddle, she dropped hard onto the grass, feeling the full impact of meeting the ground through her boots.

 _Wow, I'm tired… thank goodness this is nearly over… four days… or is it three, and one night… oh wow, I'll be glad to reach Edoras!_

"Are you all right, Lady Elanor?" inquired Eärendur anxiously, jumping easily from his mare's back and stepping towards her. Taking a deep breath, Elanor turned to face him and smiled bravely.

"I'm fine, Eärendur. Just tired."

 _Nearly two weeks of riding from dawn till dusk… how do you expect me to feel, son of Mithon?_

The young Ranger nodded, though he still appeared concerned. He had adopted Elladan and Elrohir's protective manner and taken to checking on her like a mother hen. She could not deny she rather enjoyed the attention; many of the Rangers treated her with quiet reservation, save for one or two who were close with Eärendur and Hithraur, the designated cook.

"Would you like me to unsaddle Fundanár? You should not over-exert yourself, my lady."

Elanor could not help laughing.

"Eärendur, I am not a china doll! I shall manage quite well. Thankyou, though," she added, smiling. He was kind, even if he was too chivalrous at times.

He frowned and turned to her like a curious child.

"What is a _china doll_?"

* * *

Elanor smiled at Elladan as he lowered himself to the ground beside her. It was fully dark, and Hithraur had lit a small yet merry fire in the centre of the campsite. The size of the company allowed them to indulge in the little cooking fire each night, and Elanor was glad for it's warmth and cheer.

As weary and hopeless as she might be at the end of the day, the campfire never failed to raise her spirits.

Somewhat, at least.

She was propped against a convenient stone which Elrohir had padded with a thick blanket. The aromatic scent of Hithraur's evening meal concoction was tantalising her nostrils, and her stomach growled in anticipation.

"Hungry, nethig?" laughed Elladan, taking his place on her right.

Elanor merely nodded, and Elrohir gave a dry chuckle.

"She has been pining for her meal since an hour after lunch."

Elladan gave her a gentle shove and threw back his head, his laughter echoing through the clear night. Elanor watched him with starlight in her eyes, for there was nothing more pleasant upon the ear than the laughter of Elves.

"You tease me, brother," she said, unable to keep the mirth from her voice. "Though I will admit, I am hungry."

Fortunately, it was not long before Hithraur gave a low whistle, and the Rangers gravitated towards the fire like moths to a flame. The cook slipped from amongst the crowd, balancing three bowls of stew upon his arms. With a grizzled smile, he handed them to Elanor and the sons of Elrond, who accepted them with grateful smiles.

"Thankyou, Hithraur," Elanor said, and the twins added their own thanks in quiet tones. She knew that, if not for her, Elladan and Elrohir would have been treated as the rest of the company. They had abandoned their finery, and were clad in grey as the Rangers. Instead, her presence meant that they were forced to play chaperone.

 _If it weren't for you, they would probably not stop at nightfall, but ride from dusk until dawn!_

 _And yet I have never been so tired in all my life…_

For some reason, the long days in the saddle wearied her more than her the long traipse through Cardolan with Boromir. The Rangers were tireless and swift, and Elladan and Elrohir were never subdued by physical exhaustion.

 _Perhaps too long in Rivendell has made me soft_ , she mused, her eyelids drooping closed. _I have lived in the lap of luxury so long, that this is a shock to the system._

She reached blindly for the end of her blonde plait, which had been braided since the morning before. The golden curls now reached almost to her waist, the longest she had ever grown it. Unfortunately, she did not manage to appear effortlessly immaculate like her foster-brothers, and the ringlets were full of grease, dust and painful tangles.

 _A bath would be bliss right now…_

Almost two weeks without bathing did not bear thinking of.

 _If the Rohirrim don't bathe as often as the Elves, I doubt I will be able to survive…_

 _Would the woman who has walked halfway across Middle Earth, and then ridden back the way she has come, left a twenty-first century existence behind, lost her family, and learned a new language really quail at the lack of a bath?_

"Hmph," she snorted quietly, forcing her eyelids open. Her stew was cooling fast upon her lap; the air was warmer than in the north, but still brisk after her Queenslander upbringing. The steam from her dinner was swiftly dissipating into the chilly air.

"Are you alright?" Elrohir inquired softly, in a low undertone. He had cleaned every last scrap from his bowl, and his dark brows were knitted as he searched her face. In these moments, she saw his father's quiet concern mirrored upon his features as if Elrond sat beside her.

 _Elrond in his youth, perhaps._

"Yes," she whispered, working to finish her meal. "Just very tired. I'm glad we're nearly there."

Elrohir nodded curtly. "Let me know when you wish to retire. You ought to sleep as much as you can."

"Soon," she smiled. "Thankyou, hanar."

He fell silent then, turning to watch the Rangers settling themselves around to eat. Elanor watched his profile for a time, admiring the clean-cut nose and jaw. The sons of Elrond were both beautiful and proud, and were again reminiscent of her foster-father.

 _I shall be unbelievably glad to see him again…_

The sound of Elladan speaking broke through her sleepy stupor.

"Shall we share a tale about the fire?" he called, drawing the gaze of the company of Dúnedain.

"Aye, Elladan," nodded Halbarad, nodding in approval. "Hádhon?"

A nondescript Ranger, with a thin noble face and raven hair, cleared his throat before raising his voice to speak:

 _An Elven-maid there was of old,_  
 _A shining star by day:_  
 _Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,_  
 _Her shoes of silver-grey._

 _A star was bound upon her brows,_  
 _A light was on her hair_  
 _As sun upon the golden boughs_  
 _In Lórien the fair._

 _Her hair was long, her limbs were white,_  
 _And fair she was and free;_  
 _And in the wind she went as light_  
 _As leaf of linden-tree._

 _Beside the falls of Nimrodel,_  
 _By water clear and cool,_  
 _Her voice as falling silver fell_  
 _Into the shining pool._

 _Where now she wanders none can tell,_  
 _In sunlight or in shade;_  
 _For lost of yore was Nimrodel_  
 _And in the mountains strayed._

 _The elven-ship in haven grey_  
 _Beneath the mountain-lee_  
 _Awaited her for many a day_  
 _Beside the roaring sea._

 _A wind by night in Northern lands_  
 _Arose,and loud it cried,_  
 _And drove the ship from elven-strands_  
 _Across the streaming tide._

 _When dawn came dim the land was lost,_  
 _The mountains sinking grey_  
 _Beyond the heaving waves that tossed_  
 _Their plumes of blinding spray._

 _Amroth beheld the fading shore_  
 _Now low beyond the swell,_  
 _And cursed the faithless ship that bore_  
 _Him far from Nimrodel._

 _Of old he was an Elven-king,_  
 _A lord of tree and glen,_  
 _When golden were the boughs in spring_  
 _In fair Lothlórien._

 _From helm to sea they saw him leap,_  
 _As arrow from the string,_  
 _And dive into the water deep,_  
 _As mew upon the wing._

 _The wind was in his flowing hair,_  
 _The foam about him shone;_  
 _Afar they saw him strong and fair_  
 _Go riding like a swan._

 _But from the West has come no word,_  
 _And on the Hither Shore_  
 _No tidings Elven-folk have heard_  
 _Of Amroth evermore._

As the final words echoed into silence, Elanor released a pent-up breath. She had scarcely noticed that Hádhon spoke Sindarin, so accustomed had she become to switching between English and the language of the Elves. Even her weariness did not prevent her from understanding the language.

"That was beautiful," she whispered.

Elladan glanced down at her, stars glinting in his clear grey eyes. "Aye, nethig."

Then he was called upon to recite the Song of Beren and Lúthien, and Elanor was once again caught in the spell of the lilting tongue of the Elves. She was beginning to grow drowsy once more when Eärendur spoke from several metres to her left.

"And what of you, Lady Elanor? Have you a song of your people to share with us?" he asked, the firelight flickering on his clean-cut features.

Elanor blinked stupidly for half a moment, her sleepy brain moving slowly.

"A song!" cried someone, and a few others echoed his call.

Elanor had only sung a handful of times since arriving in Middle Earth, and then only after a great deal of urging. Most songs she could recall—apart from the odd hymn—were far too conspicuous to present to the people of Arda.

"Do you wish to sing, Ellie?" Elrohir whispered low, his lips scarcely moving. She knew he would quench the demands if she desired it, but she shook her head.

"I will sing," she whispered, then raised her voice and repeated, "I shall sing."

Several of the Rangers cheered, and Elanor shifted until she was sitting forward, setting her bowl of stew aside.

 _Oh dear, what am I going to sing…_

She thought furiously for a minute, wasting time as she tucked her hair behind her ears and cleared her throat. After half a second, she sighed in resignation and hoped she would not come to regret her decision later.

 _And goodness, I hope I don't forget the words…_

Clearing her throat one more time and climbing slowly to her feet, she began:

 _Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,_  
 _Under the shade of a Coollabah tree,_  
 _And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boil,_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me._

 _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,_  
 _And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boil_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me._

 _Down came a jumbuck to drink at that billabong_  
 _Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,_  
 _And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me._

 _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,_  
 _And he sang as he shoved that jumbuck in his tucker bag,_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me._

 _Up rode the squatter mounted on his thoroughbred,_  
 _Down came the troopers One Two Three_  
 _"Whose that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda."_

 _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,_  
 _"Whose that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me."_

 _Up jumped the swagman and sprang into the billabong,_  
 _"You'll never catch me alive," said he,_  
 _And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,_  
 _"You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me."_

 _Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,_  
 _You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me,_  
 _And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,_  
 _"You'll come a Waltzing Matilda with me."_

 _Silence._

Elanor felt her cheeks flush hotly. She was very tired, and her legs felt as if they would collapse beneath her. Elrohir reached out a hand to steady her, one arm behind her back as she returned to her seat before the rock.

The world swam.

No one spoke for a time, before Halbarad called upon another Ranger who recited a cheerful poem that Elanor had heard one of the hobbits sing in Rivendell.

"Come to bed," Elladan whispered, rising cat-like and offering her a hand. His twin also stood and took her other wrist, and they pulled her gently to her feet.

Elanor allowed herself to be led away from the group, feeling exhausted from top to toe. Her limbs were heavy, and the thought of rising to ride again the following day filled her with dread.

"Was I alright?" she asked, glancing between the twins and hoping she had not committed some dreadful breach of propriety by quoting A.B. Patterson.

Elladan laughed quietly. "You were very good, in fact. The poems of your world are peculiar, though I wish now I had heard you sing more, nethig." He squeezed her shoulder affectionately, and Elanor smiled.

Elrohir released her shoulder, moving to prepare her pallet for sleep. Elladan guided her to the blankets, and despite the hard ground it was blissful to lie with her eyes closed.

"Would you like me to stay with her?" Elladan whispered, in Sindarin.

Elanor opened one heavy eye, watching the elder of the twins framed by starlight as he stood before his brother.

Elrohir shook his head silently. "I am weary also; return, for I know you wish to speak with Halbarad."

Elanor's eyes drifted closed and she found she could not prevent it this time. Still, she heard Elladan give a soft laugh.

"Weary, brother? If you say so."

She imagined she would have heard his retreating footsteps, save that the Elves walked in perfect silence.

* * *

 **Camping time with Elanor and her brothers!**

 **I had a reader mention Elanor singing "Waltzing Matilda" to the people of Middle Earth because of her Australian background, and I thought it was time for her to whip that old ditty out. ;)**

 **Hope you enjoyed it! ^_^**

 **Finwe.**


	21. Reunited

**Chapter 21 - Reunited**

* * *

 **5th March, 3019 (Third Age)**

"We ride through the night," said Halbarad, his commanding voice carrying across the group of riders.

 _Oh goodness no._

Elanor leaned wearily on Fundanár's withers, attempting to relieve the ache in her thighs, hamstrings, and backside. The sun was beginning to set, spilling the plains of Enedwaith in a most becoming shade of gold. Unfortunately, the majesty of the scenery was lost on Elanor, who had ceased to pay any attention to her surroundings.

"Lady Elanor?"

She did not need to open her eyes to realise that Eärendur had halted his mare beside her, and she sighed heavily.

"You may have to tie me onto my saddle, Eärendur," she half-spat, rubbing her eyes with one grimy hand. "I am half-asleep already!"

"We shall take turns sleeping in the saddle, my lady. Though I should willingly forgo my turn to doze so that you may rest better," Eärendur replied, his brow furrowed.

Elanor raised an eyebrow at him. "You certainly shall not!"

 _I hope to Eru I don't change my mind about that offer later._

Eärendur seemed to grow in his saddle, though his face was tinged with playfulness. "Won't I?"

She merely laughed.

The young Ranger might be hardier than she, but even the toughest of the company were beginning to look worn. Elanor could not remember what it felt like to wake up refreshed and not as tired as when she had gone to sleep.

The first few hours after dark passed in a blur. Halbarad set a fast pace, pushing the horses for the final leg of the journey. Elanor knew that they should come upon Aragorn early the following morning.

 _Aragorn… and who? Legolas? Oh goodness, what if one of them died… Boromir… So many things could have gone wrong… Glorfindel… I couldn't… oh dear…_

Fortunately, Eärendur's tongue was not affected by his level of exhaustion.

"Would you tell me about your family?" Elanor asked loudly, over the thudding of hooves. She and Eärendur rode in the middle of the group, slightly to the back. The Rangers cantered briskly in a loose mob.

"My family?"

"Yes!"

"What do you wish to know, my lady?"

Elanor laughed into the sky, marvelling once more at the manners of the folk of Middle Earth. The quaintness of expression and gentlemanly courtesies never ceased to impress her.

"Who are your parents, Eärendur? What do they do, amongst the Dúnedain? Do you have any siblings?" She laughed again. "I do not know, I hoped you would come up with your own answers."

It was Eärendur's turn to chuckle then, the sound echoing loud as Halbarad signalled for the company to slow to a walk.

"I wish to learn more of your people," Elanor said, glancing over at him. He was no longer clean-shaven after their weeks on the road, but sported a rough brown beard. Nevertheless, he still possessed a boyish air in comparison to the other Rangers. "I feel as if I have spoken of my home rather a lot, but heard little of yours."

"There is not a great deal to tell," Eärendur shrugged, holding his reins casually in one hand. "It is a hard life, for Arthedain is no longer a hospitable or profitable land. My mother died nigh on twenty years ago, and my father is also a Ranger. It was expected that I and my brothers should follow him in working to defend the North-kingdom." He paused, and Elanor noticed his voice was no longer playful. "My childhood was short, Lady Elanor. Though I believe you would know something of hardship." She thought he grinned, though the darkness made it hard to tell.

 _Hardship? I couldn't claim to know the meaning of the word until five months ago! And even then, I have been lucky. Elrond has sheltered me a great deal, and even this two weeks… some people pay to do this kind of thing back home!_

"How many siblings do you have, Eärendur?" Elanor asked instead, quelling memories of home.

"A brother," Eärendur replied, a note of fondness in his voice. "Aechon. He has only seen nineteen summers."

"He is quite a bit younger than you."

Eärendur laughed. "Aechon is… he is my _little bird_ , Lady Elanor. He is ever cheerful, and his voice is like a nightingale in song; he is beloved by all, for he has winning manners and a giving heart." He looked over at her. "You would like him, I believe."

"I'm sure I should," Elanor replied. "Did you not say 'brothers' earlier, though?"

Eärendur was silent, and she could have kicked herself. It had become swiftly apparent that tragedy was not uncommon in Middle-Earth, where few had access to Elvish medicine and battles were fought on a regular basis.

Fundanár and Eärendur's mare walked close side-by-side, and Elanor reached out to touch his arm on an impulse. "I am sorry, Eärendur. I should not have pried. I know what it is to have lost one's family."

The moon was glimmering brightly on the company, and by its light Elanor saw Eärendur's soft expression.

"It is of little import, my lady; you would not be the first to intrude upon a sensitive matter," he grinned, remembering his impasse just after their first meeting. "I had an elder brother—Miniôn. He was killed in an Orc-raid the summer before last."

Elanor stared down at Fundanár's mane. Few of her friends from home had experienced loss, and it baffled her how to respond.

 _They are… they are made of sterner stuff than anyone I have ever met. Elrond, losing Celebrían and now Arwen… Aragorn, with the loss of both his parents… Boromir, and his mother's death… Legolas… Bilbo…_

 _They face more difficulties than anyone you have ever met._

 _Yes…_

"I am sorry for your loss," she whispered, hoping that her emotions were relayed through the words. She felt a great deal of empathy for the light-hearted young man on her left.

"And I for yours."

They rode in silence for a time then, both consumed in thought.

Far too soon, Halbarad's voice echoed through the night:

"Increase the pace!"

* * *

By midnight, clouds had scudded across the moon, plunging the company into blackness. Fortunately, they had struck the North-South Road, and were drawing near to the Fords of Isen-at least, that was what Elanor presumed from her last reading of _The Lord of the Rings_.

Eärendur had repeated his offer to lead Fundanár so Elanor could rest. She was reluctant to keep him awake, but noticed that some of the other Rangers had adopted such a practice and so passed him her reins.

At first she was so discomfited by the lack of reins that she could not relax. Eventually, she leaned forward against Fundanár's neck.

It was one thing to sleep on the ground, but quite another to attempt to doze on horseback. Her mount's pace was the smoothest she had ever sat, but it was still an eye-opening experience. Leaning against his chestnut neck with her arms wrapped around him made her feel distinctly like she was going to plunge forward over his shoulder.

She defied her own sense of self-preservation and lay against him, trying to save her strength. Had she been any less tired, she would never have succeeded. As it was, she passed into oblivion with relieving swiftness.

* * *

Eärendur glanced over his shoulder at the chestnut gelding trailing behind him. Fundanár was a perfect example of Elvish quality, and followed easily behind his own mare, Tuilin.

Lady Elanor was slumped upon the gelding's neck, her long blonde braid flapping limply. He had known many hardy women of his homeland, and the peculiar Elvish fosterling had shown fortitude beyond what he had expected. The first week had left her looking like a limp rag, but over the past few days she had turned to steel. Her face was pale and her eyes ringed with deep shadows, but she had not complained.

"We near the Fords of Isen!" cried Hádhon, relaying the call from the front of the group.

Eärendur squinted into the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of their destination. Even his keen eyes could not make out any sign of the river ahead.

 _And what then, I wonder?_

* * *

Elanor woke to the sound of voices and running water. Gingerly, she pried herself of Fundanár's neck. Her body was stiff from the peculiar sleeping position, but she was relieved to discover she had not fallen off.

Eärendur was sitting his mare nearby, his back to her.

"Eärendur?" she rasped, and then cleared her throat.

"Yes, my lady?" The Ranger turned in the saddle.

"Could I have my reins back, please?"

He nodded, manoeuvring his horse so he could toss Elanor her reins. Smiling her thanks, Elanor shifted uncomfortable in her seat. She desperately needed to use the bathroom, and was extremely puzzled as to why the company had halted.

"Why have we stopped?"

"We have reached the River Isen," Eärendur replied, over his shoulder. "I do not know what Lord Halbarad is intending."

Elanor nodded. The sky was still dark, though the moon shone out brightly once more. Several nights ago, when they had made camp, she had slipped her copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ from her pack. According to its record, they met Aragorn and Théoden's people in the early hours of the day.

 _Whoever has survived…_

 _At least this is nearly over._

 _Yes, and as soon as it is, I am making a beeline for the first available bath. Or river, if that's what it comes down to._

Slipping from Fundanár's back, she told Eärendur she would be back in half a minute, and stumbled away into the darkness until she couldn't see the Rangers. Going to the bathroom was even less pleasant than usual, but it was a relief. She hurried back to the company and mounted as quickly as her tired legs would allow.

"We ride!" came a hoarse shout from the front of the group; Halbarad, presumably. Seeing Eärendur urging his mount to action, Elanor squeezed Fundanár's sides.

"Almost there, boy," she whispered, as they trotted down the gentle slope towards the Fords of Isen.

The river was not overly deep, though it ran swiftly. The tall horses had little difficulty traversing its breadth, and were soon loping up the opposite side.

As soon as they had cleared the bank, the horses about Elanor leapt forward in a burst of speed. Halbarad set a swift course, and the company thundered across the plains.

 _Surely we must be close by now…_

Fundanár surged beneath her, his powerful frame keeping pace easily with the hardy Ranger horses. She could spy her foster-brothers in the lead by the silvery coat of Elladan's horse, reflecting the moonlight.

Elanor's head was clear, far clearer than it had been all of the previous day. The nap had done her good, and the closeness of her destination gave her a second wave of strength. From the muttering she heard from those about her, she gathered that they had picked up the trail of a contingent of horsemen ahead.

 _Oh thank goodness, we're nearly there!_

The moon drifted behind a cloud, obscuring the land around. It was hard to make out the countryside, though it looked to be rolling grasslands for the most part.

Suddenly the horse in front of Elanor was wrenched to a halt, half-rearing and twisting to the right. She clutched at Fundanár's reins, drawing him in as gently as she could to prevent him crashing headlong into the Ranger's mount. He hopped in place, and even when he halted Elanor could feel that he was poised to spring into action.

"Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?" came a stern cry from up ahead.

Elanor stood high in Fundanár's stirrups, and as the moon drifted from behind it's veil she saw it glinting upon the tips of spears. Behind them, milling in the darkness, were the shapes of men and horses.

The Rangers were silent, and as she watched a tall figure—Halbarad, presumably—dismounted and strode towards the ones they followed. He was no more than a shadow in the dark, and replied in his clear voice:

"Rohan? Rohan did you say? That is a glad word. We seek that land in haste from long afar."

"You have found it," said the challenger. "When you crossed the fords yonder you entered it. But it is the realm of Théoden the King. None ride here save by his leave. Who are you? And what is your haste?"

"Halbarad Dunadan, Ranger of the North I am," he said. "We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn, and we heard that he was in Rohan."

"And you have found him also!" replied a familiar voice. Elanor's heart leapt as a mighty figure ran forward from the other company and embraced Halbarad. "Halbarad! Of all joys this is least expected."

 _Oh thank Eru, he's alive!_

Relief on behalf of her foster-sister flooded her being.

"All is well," said Aragorn, his voice lost somewhat as he turned towards what Elanor now knew to be the company of Rohirrim. "Here are some of my own kin from the far land where I dwelt. But why they come, and how many they be, Halbarad shall tell us."

"I have thirty with me," said Halbarad. "That is all of our kindred that could be gathered in haste; but the brethren Elladan and Elrohir have ridden with us, desiring to go to the war, and their foster-sister. We rode as swiftly as we might when your summons came."

"But I did not summon you," said Aragorn, astonished, "save only in wish. My thoughts have often turned to you, and seldom more than tonight; yet I have sent no word. But come! All such matters must wait. You find us riding in haste and danger. Ride with us now, if the king will give his leave."

Elanor heard another voice join the conversation. "It is well!" he said. "If these kinsmen be in any way like to yourself, my lord Aragorn, thirty such knights will be a strength that cannot be counted by heads."

 _Théoden?_

 _Oh, but where are Legolas and Gimli! And Merry!_

"Are we stopping?" she asked Eärendur, her heart longing to see her Rivendell companions once more.

"Nay, lady," he replied. "We ride with Théoden's company, to Helm's Deep."

If Elanor could have mustered the energy to scream, she would have.

Her second wind had blown itself out, and she felt utterly miserable.

 _I cannot ride any longer… oh man this is awful… why does no one think to ask if I'm all right… I just want to sleep… or die…_

Tears began to form in her eyes, and she allowed them to fall. It was quite dark, and she did not care if anyone saw her weeping. Blearily, she saw Aragorn's silhouette guide his horse back towards the Dúnedain, and ride alongside Halbarad and her foster-brothers. Fundanár was thoroughly boxed in—a safety measure should they be attacked—and she had no way to guide him to the front of the column without a great deal of shouting and nuisance.

Elanor admitted that she had harboured secret hopes of a triumphant reunion with her companions; that the two companies would halt for the night, and a merry feast would ensue. Instead, it was something like 3am, she had been on a horse for almost twenty-four hours, and all she could do was sob like a child.

She could not sleep, for she did not want to draw Eärendur's attention to her tear-streaked face by asking him to hold her reins. Instead, she sat Fundanár's rocking canter limply and allowed him to follow the other horses without guidance. Her mind was filled with the fumes of self-pity, and her thoughts ran in circles at her weariness and injustice.

* * *

"Elanor! Elanor! Are you all right? Elanor!"

Shifting sleepily, that lady opened her eyes.

"Yeah?"

She was lying upon a pile of scratchy blankets. Attempting to sit up, her hand met with the cold stone floor. The world was swimming as her body adjusted to the abrupt wakening.

"You're awake!"

Trying to focus her gritty eyes, she blinked a few more times. Leaning over her was a dark-haired figure.

"Elladan?" she mumbled, hazarding a guess at which twin had interrupted her sleep.

"Yes, nethig. Are you all right?" He moved carefully so he sat beside her, one arm behind her back. "You were delirious by we arrived this morning, and Eärendur brought you here."

Elanor felt the fog in her brain receding slowly. She turned to Elladan, noting his concern and the faint lines of weariness on his face. Despite their desperate ride, he looked none the worse.

 _Far out, the Elvish constitution…_

"I'm all right," Elanor croaked, adjusting herself so she was sitting more comfortably. "Oh goodness, I'm sore though. How long have I been asleep?"

"About six hours."

 _Great. Just enough time to make my muscles seize up. Thanks, Elladan. Oh, what I would give to have a full night's rest!_

"Are you sure you are well, Elanor?"

"I need a good long sleep, but I think that's all that's wrong with me," she said, smiling at her foster-brother. "Is there a bathroom, of some sorts?"

"Oh, of course!" cried Elladan, looking rather horrified he had not thought of such a thing. "Yes, come. I shall take you there, and then there are many who wish to speak with you."

Nodding vaguely, Elanor allowed him to help her to her feet. Her legs felt weak and shaky, and she realised it had been a long time since she had eaten. One arm wrapped around her foster-brother's waist, she stumbled across various other piles of blankets towards a broad archway.

The room that Elladan led her to was primitive compared to Rivendell, but infinitely better than the wild. There was a smelly bucket and another wooden basin filled with clean water, and after her brother had closed the door she swiftly set about relieving herself. Then, she turned to the clean water and splashed her face thoroughly. There was no mirror, but she was too sleepy to care what she looked like.

Elladan was waiting just outside, and offered her his arm once more. Though it made her feel like a child, Elanor took it and they returned to the room where she had slept.

It was a utilitarian space, with a stone floor and walls. The way bedding was scattered about made her realise that the rest of the company must have slept there as well, and Elladan had allowed her to remain. Apart from the belongings of the Grey Company, a few chairs and a rack of spears on one wall, the room was empty. The windows were high and narrow, but several candles and torches bathed the room in a lukewarm glow. Elladan gently guided her to her bed and helped her sit down.

"What have I missed?" she asked, smoothing back her dishevelled hair and glancing ruefully at her brother's immaculate black locks as he joined her on the floor.

"We arrived at the Hornburg just after dawn, and Aragorn is busy in counsel with Halbarad and Elrohir. Eärendur brought you here, and so we were not aware of your state until just recently. You have slept nigh on half the day away, nethig." He chuckled and flicked the end of her braid.

"You ought to be with Aragorn and Elrohir," Elanor said, after a pause during which she urged her mind into gear. Glancing up at her brother in uncertainty and hope, she spoke quietly: "Did any of the others come with Aragorn?"

Elladan laughed. "Yea, little sister. Both Legolas and Glorfindel accompanied Aragorn hither."

 _And what of Gimli?_ her mind cried, though she silenced it swiftly.

"Would you take me to them? Then you can go and hear what must be done."

He nodded. "Thankyou, I think that is wise." He climbed to his feet and helped her do the same. "Come; they shall be glad to see you once again!"

* * *

Elanor's legs were beginning to feel her own again as she traipsed down the corridor after Elladan. Her brain still felt sluggish from lack of sleep, but she was beginning to piece things together.

 _Helm's Deep… the Hornburg… which means the battle was… I need to check the book dates again… hang on, what is the date?_

After a few minutes, Elladan opened a metal-studded door and gestured that she enter. The door led to a brightly lit room, and as Elanor glanced through she saw that a fair number were gathered inside, eating and reclining. Most were Riders of Rohan, but to her right she observed a small cluster in grey-cloaks.

Elanor hurried forward, heedless of her filthy state and weariness.

"Elanor!" cried one of the figures, leaping to their feet as he caught sight of her.

"Legolas," she laughed, stumbling towards the brown-haired Elf. He reached out to clasp her hands, a look of shocked delight upon his countenance. Elanor glanced behind him as several other people also moved towards her.

"Glorfindel! And Merry!"

"Lady Elanor!"

"How came you to be in Rohan, Elanor?" cried Glorfindel, astonished. "You have come most unlooked for!"

"Did you not hear Halbarad's announcement? 'The brethren Elladan and Elrohir… and their foster-sister'," she twinkled at him, leaning down to embrace Merry. "I could not remain behind while you all went adventuring."

"I must have missed that announcement," Glorfindel admitted, with a grin.

Merry smiled up at her. "It is good to see you, my lady."

Elanor grinned, pleasure at seeing her friends driving back her exhaustion. "And you, Merry. Come, I want to hear all that has transpired!"

"I shall speak with you later, nethig," Elladan said, nodding at the others and planting a kiss upon Elanor's hair.

"Alright, Elladan," she smiled, sitting down between Legolas and Merry. Her foster-brother strode back in the direction of the door, and many of the Rohirrim within the room followed him with shrewd eyes. Elves were a curiosity in the south, and the sons of Elrond were tall and lordly even amongst the warriors gathered.

Elanor sighed happily as she studied the faces of the three sitting around her.

 _Man, it's good to see them all again…_

"Alright now; tell me what mischief you've all been up to!"

* * *

 **So Elanor finally gets to see her friends again!**

 **Even though I don't want this story to be ridiculous/improbable and too Elanor-centric, I also wanted her to see her companions once more.**

 **Please let me know what you think! There will be more answers in the next chapter, as I piece together for you what has changed about the story. There are a lot of interesting things, least of which is the fact that Glorfindel and not Gimli is in Rohan!**

 **Thanks for your patience, hope you liked it!**

 **Finwe. :)**


	22. Many tales

**Chapter 22 - Many Tales**

* * *

"What mischief we have been up to?" laughed Legolas. "I could ask the same of you, Elanor! How is it that Lord Elrond allowed you to leave the sanctuary of Imladris?"

Elanor grinned back. "He was awed by the skill you taught me with a blade."

Even Merry chuckled at that, and Elanor shifted uncomfortably on the hard stone floor.

"But I speak in earnest; what has happened to all of the others?" she continued, not wanting to answer awkward questions about her true reason for leaving. "This is not the whole company that I farewelled in Rivendell!" she said, glancing around at the three faces. She had not realised till that moment how desperately she wanted to know their fates. The book could not be trusted any longer, and her stomach knotted at the thought of the potential disasters.

Legolas and Merry turned to Glorfindel, who gave a resigned shrug and began. "The journey has been long and arduous, my lady. We travelled south from Imladris, making good time, and found the Gap of Rohan to be watched. Thus Gandalf led us to the Redhorn Gate, the Pass of Caradhas." Elanor nodded. Both she and Glorfindel were aware of her familiarity with this part of the story, so he did not linger.

"Yet alas! for we failed in crossing the Pass, and were forced to turn back. By great ill fortune we found ourselves seeking the Gates of Moria, in Hollin. Once that land was fair, and yet now is grievous to look upon. No other way could be found, and we entered the ancient halls of the Dwarves.

"The journey was slow and grim, for even Gandalf seemed at a loss with where to go. After several days, we found that Balin—Bilbo's old friend, I believe you have heard of him—had failed in his attempts to reclaim Moria. Gimli was grieved, but this was but a taste of the horrors we were to endure in the long dark of the Dwarf-kingdom."

Legolas sighed here, his face twisted with sadness. "Do not linger in Moria, Glorfindel, for fresh is my memory of Durin's Bane. Much of the poison is drawn from the wound, in seeing Gandalf once more, but I do not wish to dwell on it."

"As you wish," Glorfindel nodded, and even his usually serene countenance was marked by his anguish.

 _Of course… Elves hate Balrogs, and Glorfindel died in battle with one… that must've been awful…_

Elanor was filled with pity.

"It is well, for I know what you speak of," she said gently. "And so you escaped Moria, and met Gandalf alive and well upon your travels through Fangorn. Where did you go then?"

Legolas raised an eyebrow.

 _Oh dear, I'm not supposed to know about Gandalf seeing them…_

"The Golden Wood, home of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel," Glorfindel hurried on, frowning slightly at Elanor's slip. "Though I fear that it's beauty shall never be renewed, for it has lost it's former glory, and heavy is my heart. But I shall not dwell upon it. The Lord and Lady of Lórien equipped us with boats, and we continued down the River Anduin. I shall not bore you with details, my lady, for there is time for that later—" _bless you, Glorfindel_ "—but the journey was uneventful until we reached Parth Galen.

"Many words were spoken, and after a time Sam walked alone, in an effort to discern his path. The remainder of the company were grim and silent, for a bitter choice was before us; to follow the Ringbearer whither he willed, or to travel to Minas Tirith. After a time, we observed that Boromir was also missing, and my heart was troubled—" he glanced meaningfully at Elanor "—but the son of Denethor returned, grim of face. Aragorn questioned him sternly, and the company hurried off in half a dozen directions, trying to find Sam.

"It was quite bewildering, for Merry and Pippin disappeared within the trees, and Sam was nowhere to be found. Aragorn and Gimli went one way, and Legolas another. I, for my part, followed Boromir, in the hopes of discerning the cause for his peculiar manner. I feared some treachery was afoot. 'Twas well that I did, for we found young Merry and Pippin, and were beset by orcs."

" _Yrch!_ " muttered Legolas, in disgust, and Elanor pressed her lips together to subdue a smile. She found it difficult to banish her memories of Peter Jackson's trilogy in which Orlando Bloom defied all laws of physics.

"Boromir suffered many wounds, for the orcs were fierce. And yet together we succeeded in driving them back, though at great loss; for Merry and Pippin were taken from us," he glanced apologetically at the hobbit beside him.

"Quite all right, Lord Glorfindel," Merry nodded, graciously. "If they hadn't taken us, I daresay we might not have succeeded in capturing Saruman and Isengard. So really, it's all well that ends well, isn't it?"

Elanor couldn't help laughing. "Alright Master Brandybuck! Please go on Glorfindel; you've got me all wrapped up in suspense!"

The Elf-lord fixed her with his blue eyes for a moment, and in them she saw all that he had endured on her behalf.

 _I don't regret telling him about Boromir, or about Gandalf, but I really ought to thank him later. It must have been hard, especially carrying memories of the First Age and the Fall of Gondolin…_

"Aragorn and Legolas swiftly answered the call of the Horn of Gondor, and with their aid we were victorious. My skills in healing fall far short of Lord Elrond's, but between Aragorn and myself, we were able to tend to Boromir. His injuries were painful, but did not place him in danger. After some rest, he felt a great deal better."

 _He's alive… oh my goodness, he's alive… Glorfindel did it… we succeeded in keeping Boromir alive…_ ** _he_** _succeeded… I can't…_

Unable to say anything in that moment, Elanor attempted to channel all her gratitude and affection through her gaze. The golden-haired Elf smiled slightly and nodded; they would speak of it in private. He concluded with a short tale of their passage through Rohan, and Elanor marvelled at the distance the Man and his Elvish companions had traversed. When he told of their meeting with Gandalf, she put on an extra show of exuberance.

"That is good news, and I am especially glad to hear about Gandalf," she managed, unable to stop beaming. "But what of Sam? And Gimli? You have not spoken of their fates! And Gandalf and Pippin? I have not seen them here."

"That is because Gandalf and Pippin left for Minas Tirith not long before your company overtook us," supplied Merry. "Pippin—the silly goose—looked upon some device of Saruman's, and Gandalf had to spirit him away so that the Enemy didn't find him."

"You leap ahead, little hobbit!" Legolas laughed. "We shall come to your part in this tale presently, for I am sure you have Lady Elanor quite baffled with your tale of Saruman and Isengard."

"Quite," Elanor smirked, eyes flicking to Glorfindel once more. "Please, continue."

"In all of the commotion, we discovered that Samwise had slipped away alone—or so we thought. When we returned to camp, we realised his pack and one of the boats was missing, and the company was most distressed. Upon closer inspection, however, it was discovered that Gimli's belongings also had disappeared."

"Gimli!" Elanor cried. "That is news indeed." None of her imagined versions of the Fellowship had included Gimli travelling to Mordor with the Ringbearer. She had assumed Pippin had accompanied Sam, forgetting that Gandalf had taken him on Shadowfax.

 _And yet… that might not be a bad combination… Gimli is tireless and staunch. He will guard Sam's back well._

"I am glad Sam has a companion, at least," Elanor said. "Gimli will look after him."

Legolas nodded. "Indeed, though the loss of his company grieves me."

 _Did you really think you could separate Legolas and Gimli, even with sending one to Mordor?_

She grinned.

"I am sad not to speak with him, but I imagine he would be a comforting person to have at one's back."

"Other than that," Glorfindel said, attempting to wrap up the tale, "we know little. Boromir left for Minas Tirith ere we departed in pursuit of Merry and Pippin. Their adventure, however, I shall leave to the former."

Elanor turned to Merry, who gave a good account of the capture by Uruk-hai, their subsequent escape, meeting Gandalf, and the havoc wreaked upon Isengard by the Ents. She was glad that the story was familiar to her, for she admitted ruefully that she tuned out on more than one occasion. She was rather interested to meet an Ent, but her exhaustion was creeping back now that she had satisfied herself that the Fellowship was all accounted for.

"And now we ride for Edoras, for the Riders of Rohan shall be mustered," sighed Merry. He appeared to Elanor very resigned and dejected, and she made a mental note to speak with him later.

 _He is probably pining the loss of Pippin…_

"Before there is any more riding," she said, "I am in need of refreshment. Is there any food to be had?"

"Plenty," grinned Legolas, "the noon meal shall be served soon."

"Where exactly is Aragorn?" Elanor asked, turning to Glorfindel.

"In a high chamber of the Burg," said he. "He has neither rested nor slept, I think. He went thither some hours ago, saying that he must take thought, and only his kinsman, Halbarad, went with him; but some dark doubt or care sits on him."

"They are a strange company, these newcomers," frowned Merry. "Stout men and lordly they are, and the Riders of Rohan look almost as boys beside them; for they are grim men of face, worn like weathered rocks for the most part, even as Aragorn himself; and they are silent."

"But even as Aragorn they are courteous, if they break their silence," said Elanor, smiling at her recollections. "And Elladan and Elrohir are less sombre than the others, though that is not to be wondered at in Elrond's sons."

"Why have they come?" Merry inquired.

"They answered a summons, as you heard," said Glorfindel. "Word came to Rivendell from the Lady Galadriel, saying, _Aragorn has need of his kindred. Let the Dúnedain ride to him in Rohan!_ "

Elanor nodded, confirming this statement. "It is true."

Then the foursome rose, and passed out together towards the ruined gate of the Hornburg. Elanor's eyes darted back and forth, attempting to take everything in.

"The Lady of the Golden Wood!" said Legolas. "She read many hearts and desires. Now why did we not wish for more of our own kinsfolk, Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel stood before the gate and turned his bright eyes away north and east, and his fair face was troubled. "I do not think that any would come," he answered. "They have no need to ride to war; war already marches on their own lands."

Elanor nodded, realising the truth in his words. It appeared from all she had seen and read that the war against evil was scattered across the entirety of Arda.

For a while the four companions walked together, speaking of this and that turn of the battle, or the various stages of Elanor's journey, and they went down from the broken gate, and passed the mounds of the fallen on the greensward beside the road, until they stood on Helm's Dike and looked into the Coomb. The Death Down already stood there, black and tall and stony, and the great trampling and scoring of the grass by the Huorns could be plainly seen. The Dunlendings and many men of the garrison of the Burg were at work on the Dike or in the fields and about the battered walls behind; yet all seemed strangely quiet: a weary valley resting after a great storm. Seeing the scars of battle made Elanor's stomach roil. She had never stood upon a field of battle, and the sight of such wanton death was harrowing. She was very glad when Glorfindel glanced at her face and suggested they return to the Hornburg, where the midday meal would be served.

* * *

As soon as they entered the hall, a tall man summoned Merry to his side. The hobbit seemed to brighten at the man's words, and took a seat placed beside him. For their parts, Elanor and the two Elves took seats at another table.

"Who is that with Merry?" Elanor asked, climbing awkwardly onto the bench seat. They had secured a table to themselves, for many of the Rohirrim looked askance at the Elves and the peculiar woman who accompanied them.

"Théoden King," Legolas replied.

"Ah."

The Lord of the Rohirrim was much as Peter Jackson had portrayed him, save his hair was more white than gold. His shoulders were broad and his eyes keen, and on his left and right sat many powerful-looking lords. Elanor recalled various comments by the folk of Rivendell that she would fit in with the Rohirrim, and could not deny the fact; they were remarkably similar in colouring and general appearance to herself.

"Which is Lord Éomer?"

"The one to his left," put in Glorfindel, tearing some bread and passing some to Elanor. "He is a noble man."

She merely nodded, more interested in her friends than ogling the Rohirrim. There was plenty of time for that later.

The three ate in silence for a time, too consumed by hunger to speak. Elanor was glad for the respite; the Elves were pleasant companions, in both speech and quiet.

"The hour draws nigh that we must leave," Glorfindel said, at last. "Come; we go to find Lord Aragorn."

Merry had departed the hall with Théoden's company, and Elanor hoped that she would not lose the hobbit. He, like her, was largely a piece of luggage on this quest, and she had hoped to secure his company for the ride. She had no idea what her position was to be from here-on in; she had many questions for Glorfindel yet, and was reluctant to leave the company of her foster-brothers.

At that moment, she became acutely aware that she was not an Elf, but more closely related to the Rohirrim. If it came down to awkward questions, she had no lineage to speak of besides Elrond's fostering. To her, Middle Earth seemed to resemble a sort of Medieval society, and she had studied enough history to understand that rank was fairly consequential. Her time in Elrond's library had merely reinforced that; the Elves were not quite so hierarchical—despite their deference towards lords—but the races of Men appeared fairly concerned with influence and rank.

 _And I have neither, especially considering these Rohirrim seem suspicious of the Elves._

As she followed Glorfindel and Legolas out of the dining hall and down a corridor, Elanor felt a knot of anxiety form in her stomach. It sounded as if the whole company was riding out today, and she with them. Her memories of this part of _The Lord of the Rings_ were a little vague; she was still extremely tired, and it had been weeks since she'd read this part of the tale. She had no desire to follow the company of Rangers through the Paths of the Dead and to the battle; if she could avoid the battle entirely, that would be preferable. She hoped that her vague recollections were correct, and that the Rohirrim would be going first to Edoras, and then departing.

 _What am I supposed to do about King Théoden, and Lord Éomer? No one's introduced me, so I can hardly waltz up… but if I want to stay in Rohan and keep clear of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, I'm going to have to bring up the subject sometime… and I've only been able to speak with Glorfindel, Legolas and Merry for a small while, not nearly long enough, and I haven't seen Aragorn at all! Gosh, things move fast…_

"Are you coming, Elanor?" laughed Legolas, pausing at a turn in the corridor. In deep thought, she had lost track of her movements.

"Yes," she half-sighed, forcing herself to hurry. The Elf fell into step beside her, and Elanor recalled wistfully their happy times in the meadows of Rivendell.

"Where are we going?" she inquired.

"To find Aragorn and Halbarad, and the sons of Elrond," Legolas replied. "Come now; you shall soon be back upon your horse, and your feet need not carry you far."

Elanor gave a tight-lipped smile. The prospect of remounting Fundanár was almost worse than walking to Edoras.

Glorfindel strode several metres in front of them. They reached the end of the corridor and he pushed open a great wooden door.

The room inside was panelled in dark wood, with a stone floor. It made Elanor think of old medieval buildings, for it lacked the modern lightness of Imladris. Inside was gathered a small group. Aragorn had his back to her, and opposite him were Halbarad, her foster-brothers, and the golden-haired man that Glorfindel had identified as Lord Éomer.

"Ah, Lord Glorfindel," nodded Halbarad, seeing them enter. "Prince Legolas; Lady Elanor."

Elanor smiled stiffly, feeling immensely small and pitiful besides the two Elves with their royal lineages.

Glorfindel and Legolas both inclined their heads in return, and Elanor gave a brief curtsey. She thought she ought to have curtseyed lower, considering Éomer's presence, but she did not wish her legs to give out beneath her. It did not appear to matter, however; whilst Halbarad had acknowledged her, Éomer seemed more concerned with studying Glorfindel and Legolas, who moved to stand beside Elladan and Elrohir.

 _Clearly I am nothing more than a bedraggled woman, dragged along in the wake of the Dúnedain…_

Then Aragorn turned to face her, and Elanor struggled to maintain her pleasant expression. So startling was the change that she saw in him, as if in one night many years had fallen on his head. Grim was his face, grey-hued and weary.

 _He must've looked into the Palantír…_

"Lord Aragorn," she said softly, feeling his eyes resting on the top of her head as she inclined it.

"Lady Elanor," he replied. "It is good to see you again."

"And you."

 _He looks as tired as I feel! Man, it's a hard road for him to walk, just to win back Arwen!_

When Elanor raised her eyes, she noticed that Lord Éomer was watching her. He had golden hair of a similar shade to her own which fell below his shoulders. His armour was thick and heavy, his shoulders broad, and his face rather handsome. She found little to appreciate about him, however, feeling slighted as she was; he had taken no notice of her until Aragorn had acknowledged her presence.

"Welcome, Lady Elanor," he said, nodding politely. "I fear that there are few comforts here, but we shall arrive in Edoras ere long, and then pass to Dunharrow. There I shall introduce you to my sister, and I hope that we may afford you due hospitality."

"Thankyou," she responded, flattered but still somewhat irritated. His accent was different to any she had encountered, reminding her a little of the typical Irish lilt. She then remembered that the Rohirrim did not generally speak Sindarin or English—dubbed Westron in Middle Earth—but their own tongue.

Then the gathered company passed out of the Hornburg, and down onto the green, where many riders were assembled. Elanor spied easily the company of Rangers, for their grey cloaks stood out amongst the deep green and gold of the Rohirrim.

As they emerged onto the grass, Elanor spied Théoden sitting upon a great white horse. To her surprise, Merry was mounted upon a pony to his side.

 _Of course, Merry becomes Théoden's esquire. They will ride together._

Her stomach sinking, she watched as Aragorn moved forward to speak with the King of Rohan and his nephew. She heard little of what was said, and turned to Legolas.

"What is happening?" she whispered.

"Aragorn shall not ride with Théoden; they will travel too slowly, and he has need of haste. He is troubled, and desires to make for The Paths of the Dead," Legolas replied softly. "The Grey Company shall go with him; as shall Glorfindel and I."

Elanor's stomach plummeted.

"And what of me? I cannot go through the Paths of the Dead!"

Legolas's blue eyes turned to her. "Shall you accompany Théoden King, as Meriadoc does?"

"I don't know," she replied, panic rising. She felt perilously close to tears, for she did not wish to farewell her companions any more than she wanted to go near the Dead Army. "I had hoped—I don't know…"

"I believe that we ride swiftly to Edoras, and thence to Dunharrow; if Éomer speaks true, his sister is in Dunharrow, and you might remain there in her company," Legolas said gently, placing one hand on her quivering shoulder.

 _And that still means a long day's ride…_

She smiled weakly, seeing no better alternative. "That sounds all right."

* * *

Elanor sat dolefully upon her blankets. Théoden, Éomer and their company—including Merry—had ridden away, intending to take the safer mountain paths to Edoras.

 _And somehow, I end up having to go on another breakneck ride across the plains of Rohan, heading to the Paths of the Dead! And then I'll still have to say goodbye to my friends!_

She thumped her fist ineffectually on the blankets. She felt extremely bad-tempered and cross.

Aragorn had closeted himself with Glorfindel and Legolas, filling them in on details they had missed whilst speaking with her. He had included Elanor in the invitation, but she had declined. She knew perfectly well what he was going to tell them—that they rode by the Paths of the Dead, that he had looked into the Stone of Orthanc and seen Sauron, and that things were about to get real. Elladan, Elrohir and the Rangers had gone to make ready, and she had retired to the sleeping chamber to pack and have a quiet, uninterrupted sulk.

All Elanor could think about was that she was painfully tired and that in a few days the only people she knew—including her foster-brothers and her friends amongst the Rangers—would depart upon a rode she could and would not travel.

After a few minutes of well-deserved brooding, Elanor began to scoop up her belongings. She had seen Fundanár standing with the other Ranger horses, and so assumed her saddle and bedroll were already packed. She figured that Aragorn and co. would take a little while to nut out details, so she had no cause to rush.

Pausing, she contemplated her odds of being able to have a wash.

 _There might be time…_

Making up her mind to do it anyway, Elanor grabbed a clean set of clothes from within her pack and hurried to the primitive bathroom. She used the bucket to relieve herself with great reluctance, and then turned to the big basin of water.

It was cold, and there was no soap, but it was better than nothing.

After checking that the door was securely bolted, Elanor stripped off her clothes, wincing at the way she smelled. Grabbing a clean rag, she dipped it in the water and began to scrub her face.

A surprising amount of dirt came off as she rubbed at her skin, gently probing with her fingers to check that she hadn't had a pimple breakout. Fortunately she was spared that evil, and moved on to rubbing at the rest of her body. It was a poor way to get clean, but she felt distinctly fresher after she had finished. The icy water helped soothe her frustration and wake her up a little.

Her hair was a complete disaster, but it was highly unlikely she would have time to wash it. Instead, she settled for tugging out the snarled braid and finger combing the long golden curls with damp hands. This seemed to subdue it somewhat, and she re-braided it neatly before pulling on a clean set of breeches, a finely-sewn tunic which extended to her knees, and a surcoat. Whilst less than impressed with the underwear of Middle Earth, she had to admit that the method of binding her chest certainly did the job of a bra. She still felt a little grimy, but at least she didn't smell, and her clothes were reasonably fresh and neat.

When she returned to the room in which she had slept, Elanor found that the others were gathered and waiting for her. She blushed a little and mumbled an apology.

"You look better, nethig," grinned Elladan, swiping at her braid as she hurried past him.

"I feel better," she admitted, stuffing her things into her pack and gathering it into her arms. Seeing she was finished, Aragorn nodded curtly and indicated that they move out.

Legolas promptly took her bundle of belongings as well as his own, and Elanor gave him a grateful smile. They passed out of the Burg, down the ramp and back to the green, where, still and silent, the hooded Rangers waited. Legolas and Glorfindel mounted, whilst Eärendur moved to Elanor's side and helped her secure her belongings to Fundanár's saddle. She nodded her thanks and clawed her way onto the big chestnut's back.

Aragorn sprang upon a rough bay horse that the Rangers had brought with them, and Halbarad lifted a great horn. The blast of it echoed in Helm's Deep, and with that they leapt away, riding down the Coomb like thunder, while all the men that were left on Dike or Burg stared in amazement.

Elanor clung to Fundanár's saddle and sighed heavily.

 _And here we go again._

* * *

 **Poor Elanor is having a bit of a rough time at present, being dragged helter-skelter after her companions. I'm trying to make her reactions believable considering the situation she's in, how tired she is, and how much stuff is on her mind. I know the story is progressing slowly at this point, but I hope to sort things out over the next few chapters so that the story is flowing nicely and Elanor's mind is sorted out. (My head is full to bursting trying to emulate her reactions!)**

 **Thanks again for reading, if you notice any mistakes, typos, or gaps in what I've written, please review so I can correct them. :)**

 **Thanks! - Finwe.**


	23. A series of confessions

**Chapter 23 - "Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?" (Shakespeare; _As You Like It_ )**

 **NOTICE: You may have gotten notifications about me updating various chapters. This was me removing any borderline-coarse language, wanting to make this story appropriate for all ages. :) I also removed the use of the word "god", as a religious person I became uncomfortable with the blasé use of the word and felt I should change it. Thanks for your patience guys!**

 **UPDATE: I have since returned to this chapter and made a few small alterations to the final scene - this pertains to Elanor and Glorfindel's farewell. I would recommend you read it as it is integral to the furthering of the tale.**

* * *

Elanor was lost in a delirium of exhaustion by the company trotted into the valley of Harrowdale the following evening. Eärendur had conceded his position as her escort to Glorfindel and Legolas, who rode on either side of her.

She was too tired to notice.

Her mind felt leaden with the quantity of thoughts which besieged it. She had innumerable questions concerning the future, but was so consumed by staying on Fundanár's back that she could not spare any energy to ask Glorfindel.

 _Or thank him._

Beyond saving Boromir, she had little advice to offer concerning the quest. Everything else she believed had to remain as it was to ensure the quest would succeed.

 _I hope Aragorn can live up to the book, and manage the rest… I have no idea what to do if he doesn't…_

 _Yeah, and you'd better hope that Boromir's survival doesn't cause horrible knots in the storyline! What if he refuses to give up the throne to Aragorn?_

 _Well what if his survival means Faramir doesn't have to go through his near-death experience?_

 _And if Denethor lives?_

 _…then that could get messy… oh, why didn't I think of that…_

She shook her head, trying to clear it. A headache throbbed painfully at the nape of her neck, and her vision felt foggy. She had reached a state of tiredness where she no longer cared where she slept, or if she slept at all.

"We approach Dunharrow," Glorfindel called to her from out of the darkness.

 _Thank goodness… though I don't know if I ought to be glad or not…_

As best as Elanor remembered—which, she was forced to admit, was not very well at present—Dunharrow was the place with the high cliff and winding pathway.

She was not disappointed.

It was not long before the company slowed, and began the painstaking climb to the cliffside haven of Dunharrow. It was full dark, and yet fairly early in the evening when they reached the top of cliff. It appeared that at the head of the path was a large grassy meadow, and lines of white tents glowed dully in the moonlight.

The following day, Elanor might recall vague images of the dark camp, of falling from Fundanár's back into Glorfindel's arms, and being laid gently upon a soft bed. That night, however, she passed into oblivion before she could process any of the things she wanted to say or do.

* * *

Elanor drifted out of sleep with blissful slowness.

She was curled up on her right side, wrapped in a snug pile of furs and blankets. Her cheek was pressed against something pleasantly soft, and for once she could not feel a multitude of stones and tussocks pressing into her arm and side.

She breathed deeply and pressed her eyes closed.

 _If I could forget that this bed is slightly harder… and that it doesn't smell like this… and I don't hear the sound of canvas flapping… I could be at home…_

 _Where is home, Elanor?_

 _In Riv— …gee thanks, that ruined it._

Sighing forcefully, Elanor opened her eyes.

She was lying within a fairly large tent, not the pitiful triangle affairs she had grown accustomed to seeing. This was rather like the airy tents that the various families had used whilst camping at the medieval festival back home…

 _Enough. You have plenty to worry about without letting yourself fall into Homesickness: Round Two!_

She sat up, wincing as she did so. Every part of her body throbbed from days of exertion, but she found she was able to observe her surroundings.

The tent stood upon the grass, but the floor was largely covered with rugs and furs. She was not sleeping on the ground, as she had first supposed, but upon a kind of cot or camp-bed. There were several chairs resting precariously upon the uneven "floor", and there was even a small wash-basin in one corner.

 _Well the Rohirrim certainly know how to camp…_

The entrance to her tent hung closed, though as Elanor watched it a gentle breeze tickled the flap. She glimpsed the grey sky between the white folds.

 _Oh dear, it's still early…_

Part of Elanor wanted to curl back up into a ball and sleep the day away, but she could not put aside a niggling feeling that she ought to get up. She was dressed in the clothes she had put on in the Hornburg, and her stomach was gnawingly empty. With a start, she realised that she had neglected to eat dinner the night before. Steeling herself, Elanor rolled forward until she was kneeling on the cot. Her legs throbbed, pain lacing up and down her thighs, hamstrings, and glutes. She hoped she would be able to walk.

Shifting her feet around to the right, she manoeuvred herself until she sat upon the edge of the cot. Her backside felt as if she were sitting on a bed of rocks. She screwed up her face and eased herself onto her feet.

Her legs were unsteady, but they held.

Elanor took a few experimental steps, bending over and lunging forward on both legs to loosen her knotted muscles. She noted that her boots sat at the end of her bed, and she attempted to tug them onto her feet.

 _This is worse than a session at the gym…_

She grimaced. It had been a long time since she had thought of her membership at the 24-hour gym back home. Clenching her jaw to stifle memories, Elanor pushed aside the tent flap and stepped outside.

The meadow in which her tent was pitched was still dim, as the sun had not yet arced above the looming mountains. Considering that it was before dawn, there was a surprising amount of activity within the camp. Many horses were tied to picket lines, and there were several rows of tents. Soldiers and grey-cloaked Rangers were moving about purposefully. It was deja vu, being so similar to the medieval festival her family had attended.

Elanor took a deep breath. She could remember nothing from the night before, and her stomach tightened.

 _What if they left without telling me?_

She was adamant that she would not go with them to intercept the Corsair ships, and walk the Paths of the Dead. But the thought that they might depart without informing her smarted painfully.

Hurrying forward, Elanor angled towards what she believed to be the centre of the campsite. She was not disappointed. As she rounded a row of tents, she strode headlong into a small cluster of familiar faces. They were abruptly silent, and all seemed surprised at her appearance.

"Elanor," smiled Legolas, smoothing the tension, "we were just speaking of waking you."

She gave him a tight smile in response, eyes flicking between the faces of the group before her. Elladan and Elrohir were silent, and even the elder twin looked grim and stern. Aragorn was flanked by Halbarad, both grey-faced and weary, whilst only Glorfindel and Legolas maintained a semblance of their usual selves. Several of the Rohirrim loitered nearby, apparently in conversation but sending frequent and furtive glances towards the mixed group.

"Good morning, Elanor," nodded Aragorn, in his slow, courteous voice. She responded in kind, and for a moment the silence was broken by murmured greetings. Elanor realised then that she had marched in during a conversation, and felt her cheeks redden a little. The uncertainty in the air was palpable. After an awkward pause, Aragorn spoke again.

"Prepare to depart; we cannot linger long, for my heart forebodes that haste is needed."

The company gave varied gestures of acquiescence, and melted away to do as he bid. When she glanced around, even the Rohirric soldiers had made themselves scarce. Only Elladan and Elrohir remained, and moved to speak with her.

"I believe you are not unfamiliar with the current state of things," began Elrohir, "and from Legolas' words I have gathered that you do not wish to travel further with us, nethig."

Elanor's heart faltered, but she shook her head. "No. I don't want to say goodbye, but I doubt I would fare well in a battle." She glanced at Elladan, who gave her a half-smile.

"That is wise." Elrohir sighed, his creased brow reminding her so much of Elrond that she felt her stomach lurch. "We have doubts in leaving you, but Aragorn has spoken of you to Lady Éowyn. She will take you whither she goes, and we entrust you to her keeping."

 _Oh goodness, that couldn't go wrong at all!_

Elrohir must've noticed the expression on her face, for her frowned slightly. "The future is uncertain, for your foresight can no longer be relied upon. Be on your guard, nethig, and do not do anything rash." He gave her a sad smile at the end, and reached out to brush her cheek with his hand. Elanor nodded.

"I will do my best, Elrohir."

Elladan clasped her shoulders then, turning her so she looked directly into his fathomless grey eyes.

"We will come back to you, Ellie—you said so yourself. And we expect to see you in Minas Tirith to celebrate our victory ere long," he said, smiling playfully and squeezing her arm.

"I look forward to it," she managed, forcing the words to sound hopeful and assured. Elladan embraced her, before stepping back and allowing Elrohir to do the same.

"Now come, for you shall farewell the rest of the party in due form, as the Lady Éowyn shall," the younger twin said, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Elladan followed on her other side, and they soon came upon the familiar sight of thirty men in grey cloaks. At their head Elanor saw Aragorn, an inch or two above all the others, and Legolas and Glorfindel nearby. Whilst she was affectionate with her Elvish foster-family in private, Elanor had come to realise that such demonstrative behaviour was not appropriate in public. It had not taken long to realise her display at the Fellowship's departure was considered exceedingly forward.

As such, Elrohir gently removed his arm from about her. Elladan squeezed her hand briefly, and with several sad looks they moved to join the company.

Feeling rather like a lost child, Elanor walked slowly past the Rangers, receiving several grim nods of greeting and farewell. She could see a golden head speaking to Aragorn, and presumed this to be Éowyn.

 _I'm finally going to meet her, and I find myself "in her keeping". Goodness, Elladan and Elrohir would never have done that if I'd told them all of the antics that she gets up to!_

Before she reached Aragorn and his almost-love-interest, however, Elanor felt a gentle touch on her arm. She jumped. Her body was still tense from days of riding and stress, and she spun around to find the one who touched her.

Eärendur smiled apologetically, and Elanor could have slapped herself for her reaction.

He seemed to remember his manners then, and bowed formally.

"Lady Elanor," he said.

"Eärendur," she replied, curtseying and hoping the pain did not show on her face. Her legs still ached.

"You do not journey on with us?" the Ranger asked, hope mingled with concern.

"No; my brothers deemed it safer that I remain in Dunharrow, in the Lady Éowyn's company," she responded, eyes down. She liked the young man, not yet worn down by the cares of the world. He was less reserved than the others, and still laughed and smiled readily.

 _At the rate I collect people, I'm going to be missing and worrying about half of Middle Earth before this war is over! So many friends, and so much fighting._

She glanced up again, studying his grey eyes and handsome face.

 _Likelihood is, he'll die too._

"I am glad you will remain where it is safe," Eärendur said. "I shall miss your company on the road, however; you made bearable many a long hour in the saddle."

"As you did for me," she smiled, pushing away the thoughts which came unbidden of still pale faces, of Elladan and Elrohir, Legolas and Glorfindel…

Eärendur's gaze flickered to those standing nearby for an instant. Then, gently, he reached out and took her hand. Elanor breathed in sharply as he looked down upon her, an intensity in his face she had not observed before.

"I shall see you when I return, Lady Elanor, will I not?" he asked, voice low and almost… tender.

 _…he doesn't… surely… does he mean…_

"I—I believe so," she stammered, wondering if she was reading too much into the quiet question. "I will see you all after the war is over, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

He gave a short bark of laughter, drawing the eyes of several of the others. Elanor flushed under their scrutiny, acutely conscious of the warmth of Eärendur's hand around her own.

"Do you not know, Elanor of Imladris?" he asked, drawing her eyes back to his.

 _Not until about ten seconds ago I didn't!_

"Eärendur—"

"I do not ask for a pledge, lady; save only that you will consent to speak with me after all is said and done."

"I do not know what Elrond—"

The creasing of his brow cut her off, and he released her hand as if it were hot iron. For a second his voice bordered on anger, veined with bitterness. "I perceive your meaning, my _lady_. Elrond Peredhel should not wish his daughter bound in troth to one so lowly as myself. I shall trouble you no more."

He was just beginning to bow and leave when Elanor reached out and clasped his arm. She was full of bewilderment and confusion, but would not see her friend leave in high dudgeon.

"Eärendur, no! Of course not. I am not Elrond's real daughter, but an _adan_ , and a lowly one at that. I merely meant to say that I do not know what Elrond has planned for me, if all should go well; I cannot remain in his household forever, and he may see fit to send me elsewhere." She finished slowly, swatting away painful thoughts of her Australian home that mingled confusingly with this new development.

 _Eärendur… has a crush on me?_

 _If kissing Boromir was bad, having one of the Dúnedain fall in love with you has to be worse! How could this happen? I have Tim! I'm in love with Tim!_

 _And if you never get back to him?_

 _Then I'll love him to the day I die._

The other Rangers had ceased to pay attention to the two young people, deep in conversation, for which Elanor was profoundly glad. Eärendur's eyes were downcast, but she squeezed his arm once more, willing him to look up. She had no idea what she would say to the soft-hearted young Ranger later, for she couldn't tell him the truth about her boyfriend from back home, at least not now.

 _Still, you can deal with that later. For now… is it wrong for him to hope? I can always tell him 'no' when he's not heading into battle, with death looming above his head!_

"Do not jest or speak falsely, Elanor," said Eärendur, finally, running his thumb across his own work-worn palm. "If you are dismayed by what I have asked, speak plainly and say as much, for I would not foster hope where there is none."

 _Now's your chance—put him off!_

Instead she smiled gently. "Eärendur."

He looked up, hope upon his features. "Elanor?"

Elanor hesitated, and gave a brief nod.

 _You fool! Now you've got to tell him later that you lied to him!_

 _He looks like a lost puppy, alright? How on earth do you expect me to say no to someone as young and sweet-looking as him?!_

"Elanor," he said again, gently. He lifted one hand as if to touch her face, but seemed to think better of it. "I have not laid eyes upon any fairer than thee. Were the world a kinder place, I should not be speaking of such things to you on the eve of battle, but such it is. I am yet young by the standards of my race, and though you have not the longevity of my people, still I would make you my wife if you heart is as mine."

 _Is this a proposal?_

"But alas," he continued, glancing about, "our time is short, and I have allowed my thoughts to wander. I do not ask for an answer now, though your words bring me hope." He smiled, and it was an expression of such tender affection that Elanor felt panic rise within her.

Forcing it down, she returned the gesture and glanced down at her toes.

"I am most flattered, Eärendur," she responded quietly, feeling that at least _that_ much was true. "As you say; time is short and now is neither the time nor place." Elanor hesitated, desperately hoping she didn't say too much or too little and mess the whole thing up.

She looked up at his face, feeling a pang of remorse at the hope and delight written about his grey eyes. She was just bracing herself to utter a non-committal response, when the words stuck in her throat like wads of cotton wool.

"Be safe, and come back," was all she managed, half-choked with emotion.

 _Well done Elanor, you just told him you liked him as much as he likes you!_ rejoined her inner voice, as Eärendur smiled broadly and took her hand for the second time.

 _He's so sweet! What else did you expect me to do?!_

"You have made my heart glad," he said, squeezing her fingers. "And I beg that you not endanger yourself in any fashion. I will return, and I would not wish to find—" He broke off and shook his head, dismissing the notion.

Eyes straying, Elanor noticed the approach of one of Eärendur's friends and swiftly disentangled her hand from his. The Ranger turned, and, with surprising tact, concluded his profession of love with a nod.

"Be safe, Lady Elanor."

Eärendur's friend—the one Elanor had encountered in the tree all those days ago—was desperately trying to suppress a smirk. Feeling alarmed at the gossip that would likely fly about the company, she blushed and curtseyed to the pair. Both men nodded—though Eärendur was still grinning stupidly—and melded back into the crowd of grey-cloaked Rangers.

Elanor exhaled heavily, her face hot and her insides turned all aflutter. Before anyone else could notice her discomfort, she continued past the company to the head of the group, where Aragorn and Lady Éowyn were still conversing.

Despite her own flustered state, Elanor was immediately aware of a feeling of tension as she approached the two figures. She padded slowly forward, standing beside Glorfindel, who barely spared her a glance. Several metres away was Aragorn, his back to them. Past his mighty frame, Elanor glimpsed a beautiful woman with long golden hair, her face twisted in distress and tears upon her cheeks.

"Aragorn, wilt thou go?" she asked, in a voice clear and lilting.

"I will," replied the Ranger.

"Then wilt thou not let me ride with this company, as I have asked?"

 _Oh goodness, more angst. Of all the things to happen today, it has to be the moment Éowyn gets all up-in-arms because Aragorn doesn't love her…_

At the woman's request, Elanor felt Glorfindel stiffen beside her. She knew the Elf would resist the presence of a woman, for some part of him still ached at the Fall of Gondolin. The fact that she was there herself concerned him—he had confided as much to her in the earlier stages of the previous night's ride, before she passed into delirium.

"I will not, lady," came Aragorn's gentle reply. "For that I could not grant without leave of the king and of your brother; and they will not return until tomorrow. But I count now every hour, indeed every minute. Farewell!"

Then she fell to her knees, saying: "I beg thee!"

"Nay, lady," Aragorn said, taking her by the hand and raising her to her feet. He kissed her hand then, and Elanor looked away. The tall man longed for Arwen, though he put the pain aside in favour of duty, and displayed a quiet courtesy to all.

 _As you long for Tim, and Eärendur longs for you…_

"Why does the world have to be so complicated," she sighed, under her breath. Glorfindel's sharp ear must have caught the utterance, and he turned to face her.

"For the path we tread is neither broad nor straight, Elanor."

She laughed a little.

"Oh, but I wish it was!"

He nodded, mirth fading. "I also wish as much."

Realising that Aragorn was about to depart, for he moved swiftly to his horse, Elanor stirred herself to action.

"Glorfindel, I never thanked you for all you did," she whispered quickly. "Especially with Boromir. I am relieved to have been able to change that much of the story, at the least." She gave him a watery smile, feeling her thanks was woefully inadequate. "Even if I shall be left on the brink of adventure for the rest."

The Elf nodded, reading the deep sincerity in her eyes despite her lack of eloquence. "You are welcome, Elanor. Did I not say I could not refuse aught that you asked of me?" His eyes were startlingly blue, painfully reminiscent of her boyfriend.

 _Oh gosh, Tim… if I had to be loved by anyone in Arda, it would be Glorfindel, and not Eärendur. Glorfindel knows the truth about where I come from, and has seen me at my best and worst._

 _And he's as perfectly handsome as one could get…_

 _But I love Tim!_

 _And Glorfindel could never have feelings for me; he is an Elf, and I am a Human. Even were I born and bred in Middle Earth, such a thing would never work._

Realising the need for haste, Glorfindel touched her gently on the shoulder. "I said once you reminded me of the Princess Idril, Elanor; I will say as much again. She was as dear to me as one of my own kin, and so you have become."

 _Is that a kind way to say, "you're buried six feet under in the friend zone"?_

"Thankyou, Glorfindel," Elanor replied, feeling as if she'd had enough startling revelations for one day. "You are like a brother to me as well."

For an instant, the Elf's face was clouded with confusion. Then he nodded and gave her a lingering smile, grasping his horse's reins and mounting with balanced grace.

In a rustling of grey cloaks—the dull colour of the Ranger's garb interrupted occasionally by the lighter weave of Lórien—they were gone.

* * *

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	24. Gathering pieces

**Chapter 24 - Gathering Pieces**

* * *

Elanor stared across the deafeningly silent meadow. The tents of the Rohirrim still swayed gently in the breeze, but the air was eery and forlorn. She had not felt this alone since the early days of arrival in Middle Earth, and she half-wished she'd changed her mind and gone with the company of Rangers.

Now, her shoulders felt heavy, and her heart like a stone within her chest. There was a multitude of internal troubles careering around her stomach, and she longed desperately to return to her bed.

As it was, she took a deep breath and turned her eyes towards where Lady Éowyn still stood.

The other woman was watching her, standing as if balanced on her toes. Her countenance was masked by grief and suspicion, and she made no move forward. Sighing, Elanor took several steps to lessen the gap between them.

"Lady Éowyn," she said, halting and favouring the other woman with a nod when she was about two metres away.

"Lady Elanor, I believe," came the response, and when Elanor glanced up the Rohirric woman had also performed a brief half-bow.

There was silence for a moment, as the pair sized each other up.

Like herself, Éowyn was clad in masculine-style clothes, wearing a tunic, breeches and boots. She had exceedingly long pale gold hair, which hung in soft waves to her hips. She was probably an inch taller than Elanor-5'10", or perhaps a little more-and very beautiful, though in a different way to the Elves. Her skin was fair and smooth and her eyes distractingly lovely, but she was not perfect by any means. Her eyes and nose were still pink from crying at Aragorn's departure, and her cheeks marked with dried tears. However, something about the slightly lopsided mouth was comforting and familiar; this was the first human woman she had seen in Middle Earth, and it was a stinging reminder of home.

Elanor swallowed with difficulty. Éowyn was still watching her, but at that moment she gave a small smile.

"Forgive me for my rudeness, Lady Elanor," she said, her Rohirric accent lilting pleasantly as she formed the words of the Common Tongue. "I was approached by two Elves last evening, who spoke of you to me, claiming kinship as your brothers. I had expected to discover an Elf-maiden," her eyes proclaiming a cool challenge, "and I will confess at being rather relieved to find you as much a human as myself."

Elanor smiled stiffly, wondering whether to be pleased or offended. The muted amusement which showed through on Éowyn's face decided her, and she gave a forced laugh.

"You are right," she said. "I am no real sister to Elladan and Elrohir; their father, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, was kind enough to take me in when I appeared upon his doorstep. I have been trespassing on their hospitality ever since."

Éowyn nodded slowly.

"I know what it is to be a fosterling, Lady Elanor. I am pleased you shall dwell with us for a time, for I confess I have little knowledge of the Elves," she said. "Your foster-brothers are proud and lordly, and I am honoured to be acquainted with one who claims kinship with them." She laughed bitterly. "Though they seemed not a little reluctant to depart from you."

Elanor chuckled wearily in her turn then, somewhat bewildered by the aggrieved lines written about the other woman's eyes. Éowyn gestured towards a larger tent at the centre of the camp.

"You must be in need of refreshment, Lady Elanor; come, and break your fast." The words were delivered with taciturn civility.

Elanor nodded, relieved at the thought of food despite the impassive delivery of the suggestion. She longed to return to her bed, but found it hard to brush aside her gnawing hunger. Silence fell as they trod across the luxuriant, clover-studded grass of the meadow.

Whilst Elanor had come from a modern world where formal civilities were considered archaic, she had also quickly realised the importance of Middle Earth's customs. Nothing stood out so much as someone blundering about with an arrogant disregard for propriety, and she had drilled both Elrond and Glorfindel on how a woman in her position ought to behave. Yet, something about Éowyn's manner prevented Elanor from brandishing the lofty title of Lady or Rivendell that she had become accustomed to exploiting. For weeks, she had behaved more like a noblewoman out of a storybook than anything—which, she reminded, was precisely what she was aiming at. The Dúnedain had treated her like an Elvish princess, making her feel less and less human with each passing day. Her foster-family was Elvish, she spoke Elvish, she breathed Elvish.

And Éowyn was a sharp reminder that she was completely unremarkable, a woman from a modern world with no claim to rank or nobility. Amongst the Elves, she had been an unusual and honoured human woman. Here, she was just a human.

Éowyn paused to hold open the tent flap for Elanor, and she stepped carefully inside.

The tent was more like a large pavilion, though the sides had been lowered to ward off the cool spring breeze. Within was a fair-sized table resting upon the grass, and surrounded by a collection of aged and mismatched chairs. At one end of the tent were two armour-clad men, soldiers in the green and gold of Rohan. They stood to attention as Lady Éowyn made her entrance, and one moved towards a smaller table which held various cloth-covered dishes. As Éowyn gestured for Elanor to take her seat, the second soldier appeared at her left hand. He placed a plate and cutlery before her, and moved to do the same for Éowyn.

As Elanor glanced across the table, she realised that Éowyn was watching her with piercing curiosity. She seemed to have gathered herself from her recent distress, though her expressions were veiled and her eyes chilly. Like all the Rohirrim Elanor had seen, her brow was smooth and proud, and her grey eyes shrewd. Beneath the weariness and disillusionment, however, Elanor thought she glimpsed a mischievous girl, with good humour and quick wit.

 _No wonder she's so cold though—Théoden must've been a nightmare to look after while he was half-crazed, her brother's away most of the time, and she has just said goodbye to the man she thinks she's in love with. If I were her, I'd probably be crying in a heap on the ground. I wish I could cheer her up… but what to tell her? "You fight the Witch-king of Angmar and nearly die?" Or how about, "Your Uncle dies in battle?" I wish I could hint about Faramir, but that could wreck something. And then who will she marry? Gee, having foreknowledge sure isn't easy!_

"I hope I do not speak out of turn, Lady Elanor, but I would ask a question of you," Éowyn began, and Elanor waved her hand dismissively.

"Not at all," Elanor replied, nodding in thanks as one of the men waiting on them placed several dishes on the table. For some inexplicable reason, she liked Éowyn, despite her rather cool manner and the painful memories of home she inspired. It had been too long since she had conversed with a woman near her own age. Pushing aside thoughts of the future, she leaned forward a little. "What do you wish to ask?"

"Had you not proclaimed your home in the North, I should have supposed you one of the Eorlingas," Éowyn said, using the word the Rohirrim applied in reference to themselves. She frowned thoughtfully, though it did not mar her beauty. "Though by your accent I know it cannot be."

Elanor smiled down at her plate. "You are not the first to make such an assumption. The Elves presumed as much, as did a man of Gondor whom I met upon the road. It is my hair, I suppose." Her fingers sought out the end of her golden braid, which hung long past her shoulder. She smirked slightly, thinking of Legolas' peculiar theory about how fast it had grown.

"Not just your hair," Éowyn returned, tearing off a piece of bread. "Your eyes also, and your bearing. You should not appear out of place amongst the noblewomen in Meduseld. Where then, are you from, if not the Riddermark?"

"An island far to the south. Though I believe our people were some distant kin of Eorl the Young in years forgotten," Elanor added. She'd made that lie up to appease Eärendur when he had questioned her concerning her heritage. He hadn't found it easy to grasp that nations in Elanor's world did not all share a set of physical attributes, as did the lands of Gondor and Rohan.

"I see."

Elanor watched her for a moment, noting the purposeful grace that Tolkien's heroine displayed even as she buttered bread and took slices of ham.

 _I suppose there is something in what she says; until now I've ignored the comments, but if I ever had to blend in… well, Rohan would be the place._

"You honour me with such a comparison," she said, after some consideration. It had ceased to surprise her how easily the phrases of the land slipped off her tongue these days.

Elanor was rewarded for her compliment by a smile—it was stiff, but the first warmth Éowyn had shown.

"Courteous indeed are the children of the Elves."

Elanor swallowed a mouthful of bread. "I speak as I find, Lady Éowyn."

 _That sounded like a line straight out of Jane Austen!_

 _What, you expect me to fabricate my civilities when I could steal from one of the world's greatest authors? No thanks! Much easier to_

Éowyn seemed to brighten a little at that, and for a few minutes the two women ate in silence unmarred by tension. After Elanor had devoured a generous hunk of bread with butter and ham, she brushed the crumbs off her hands. Once Éowyn had also finished, she turned to the two soldiers who were still standing to attention.

"You may go."

Both men bowed low and departed with the sound of clinking armour. As they disappeared through the tent flap, Éowyn sighed and visibly relaxed.

"I shall not deceive you, Lady Elanor," she said, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples with her long fingers. "I have little love for formality, and my uncle, King Théoden, has bestowed upon me the cares of my people. Hope is scarce in such times as these, and one must keep up appearances." She smiled wearily at this and fixed Elanor with sharp eyes. "I believe you to be a straightforward person, Lady Elanor, or I should not have spoken to you of such things. As it is, I have many troubles, and the prospect of a companion near my own age is a great comfort to me."

Elanor was besieged by a rush of affection for the noble woman, swamping her already tangled feelings.

"I feel much the same, Lady Éowyn," she admitted, relieved to see the icy wall the other woman had erected begin to melt. "Much has occurred in the last few months, and it is all rather overwhelming. I am glad to be here, and not approaching the war."

"You do not wish to ride to battle?" Éowyn inquired, retreating behind a shield of suspicion.

"I am ill-equipped for such a venture," Elanor back-pedalled swiftly, "though I do wish I could do more than remain on the sidelines."

"I would ride to battle if it were permitted me," said Éowyn, a touch fiercely. Elanor could have kicked herself for her defeatist statement; she certainly wouldn't win favour with the shield maiden of Rohan by expressing her desire to retreat to safety.

"You are brave and skilled, Lady Éowyn. Tales have reached my homeland of your courage and valour—" Éowyn eyes widened "—I have only held a weapon for a short amount of time, though I was taught amongst the Elves. Elladan and Elrohir—my foster-brothers—are fierce and skilful warriors, and I also learned from an Elf of Mirkwood. They were fond of joking about how long I should last in battle—and trust me, the estimates were not flattering!" Elanor glanced down again, for though she smiled at the recollection, she found her eyes filling with tears. The strain of the previous weeks was beginning to catch up on her, and all she really wanted to do was think—and sleep.

Thus, she was exceedingly startled when the woman across from her laughed heartily.

Elanor's eyes flashed upwards, for Éowyn's laughter was as clear and sweet as an Elf's. All the traces of iciness in her gaze disappeared like an Australian frost. After a moment she ceased chuckling, and looked at Elanor with surprising warmth.

"Lady Elanor," she said, solemnly, "I will confess that I expected you to be—well… it is no secret that we in Rohan harbour great suspicion of the Elves, for we scarcely venture beyond our borders. Few have passed beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood, where it is rumoured lives a mighty Elf-witch. I beg your forgiveness if I treated you with rudeness and suspicion earlier; war is a sorrowful time, and I was overcome by my own grief. May we begin again?"

Elanor nodded emphatically. "Of course. I am from a land far away, where... well, it is a small world. We have means to travel swiftly, and are well acquainted with those hundreds of kilom—miles distant. I forget sometimes that it is not so here, and that travellers from so far North are rarely seen in the Riddermark." She smiled, hoping to lower Éowyn's guard. "Besides, I have only lived with the Elves for the last six months; before that, I have always dwelled amongst other humans."

"You come from a land beyond Middle Earth, then? What is the world beyond like, Lady Elanor? Is it possible that some distant kin of the Rohirrim reached such a place?" Éowyn cried, leaning forward in eagerness.

"Not very different to here, I'm afraid," Elanor said, feeling weary at the thought of exchanging stories then. "I would love to tell you about my home sometime, Lady Éowyn, but I'm—I'm hardly—" She broke off, wishing fervently that the war did not press upon her with such a sense of urgency.

Éowyn nodded, her eyes softening. "Such is the way of the world. You are weary, and I have detained you too long." She rose and pushed back her chair, and Elanor did the same.

"I would not mind some more sleep," Elanor couldn't help laughing, "though I am equally desirous to stay and talk with you. I have had no female company in—well, a long time."

"It grieves me that you come at the brink of war!" cried Éowyn, a trace of her former distress in her voice as they departed the tent. "Were the manner of your coming different, there are many things we could have spoken of, and much time to be spent together."

Elanor sighed a little sadly, a heaviness resettling on her heart. As they emerged from the tent, she realised that the sun had risen, spilling bright gold across the landscape.

For a moment, Elanor could do nothing but gasp in amazement at the scene set before her, all melancholy thoughts forgotten. She had been too frazzled to notice the scenery as the Dúnedain had dashed southwards, and it had been dark when they arrived at Dunharrow the night before. Now, she was stuck by the full splendour of Ered Nimrais.

The White Mountains were indeed aptly named. All about them were magnificent peaks, rearing their majestic heads in craggy formations and snow-capped ridges. The lofty altitude at which Elanor stood only accentuated the impressiveness of the scene, for stretched out far below them was a long, sloping valley. _Harrowdale_ , Elanor realised. The river Snowbourne cut across the lower meadow, a dark strip amongst the vivid green of grass and tree. All across the meadow were rows of white tents—soldiers of the Riddermark, Elanor realised, already gathered to ride to war. The pink of the swift-brightening sky formed a breathtaking contrast with the grey and white of the mountains, spilling down onto the emerald below. It was utterly unlike anything Elanor had ever seen, for the mountain ranges of Australia were covered in scrub. These peaks were bare and stony, more like the images she had seen of Switzerland in the summer. Except, somehow, the sight of Rohan's White Mountains far surpassed even her loftiest imaginings of Mont Blanc's grandeur.

"Beautiful, is it not?" murmured Éowyn, from her right. The woman was staring out at the landscape, the cool breeze caressing her magnificent gold hair.

Elanor could only gape. "I don't think I have ever seen anything so lovely."

This seemed to please Éowyn, who smiled wistfully.

"I wish I could stay to appreciate it."

"Oh, forgive me! I have forgotten myself once more," Éowyn said, hurriedly. "I do not wish to detain you if you should desire to rest. I also seek solitude," she admitted, "though it is hard to find when one has been handed command of the kingdom."

"I can imagine."

Éowyn sighed. "It is of little import; King Théoden will arrive ere long, and shall resume command." She turned to Elanor, smiling a little wearily. "Do you know the way back to your tent, Lady Elanor?"

"I think so," she replied.

"Good," Éowyn nodded. "I will see you later."

She half-turned to leave before stalling, an expression of shy nervousness on her face.

"Lady Elanor?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to share the noon meal with me?"

The request was soft, and so unlike the stern independence that Éowyn had previously demonstrated. Tolkien had portrayed this warrior-woman as being rather grim and proud, but even in reading the books she had seen that a lonely and desperate girl was trapped beneath the outer facade.

Elanor smiled warmly. She had precious little opportunity for companionship, and she would eat her own boots if she didn't make the most of this chance.

"I would love to."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Elanor was back in the comforting solitude of her tent. Flopping down heavily on her camp bed, she tugged her boots off and threw herself backwards onto the blankets.

For some time, she lay with her eyes closed and breathed.

 _Breathe._

 _Just breathe._

It was all she could do to impress her lungs to do their job. Eventually, she rolled over to one side and tugged a blanket over her body. It was cold, for Dunharrow was high in the mountains and it was only early spring.

 _Where to begin?_

That was the question which troubled her.

So much had happened.

 _And so much is yet to happen!_

 _Breathe. Focus, and breathe._

Forcing herself to sit up, Elanor clambered reluctantly from the protection of her blankets and moved to her pack. It had been placed neatly against the foot of her bed, courtesy of Glorfindel. Rummaging past her clothes, Elanor grasped a hard package and yanked it out. It had been a risk to bring _The Lord of the Rings_ on her journey, but she had been profoundly thankful for it more than once. Returning to her bed, she pulled it from the cloth wrappings and leafed through until she came to a page marked with some folded parchment.

Elanor had always enjoyed studying. Her quick mind had revelled in the perusal of history, and it had been almost enjoyable to mark out a Middle Earth timeline using _The Lord of the Rings_ as a reference. She was thankful for it at that moment, unfolding the parchment and running her finger down a line of neatly marked dates. Frowning, she attempted to work out how many days had passed.

 _I know we met the Rohirrim on the morning of the 6th of March… which means… hang on, it can't be only the 8th… it's been longer… hasn't it?_

But as she returned to her meticulous notes, she was again surprised. Written in looping cursive under "8th March" was, _Aragorn takes the Paths of the Dead at daybreak and reaches the Stone of Erech at midnight_.

"Geez," she muttered, placing the book down and pulling up her blanket so it draped around her shoulders. "It's been a long two days!"

Which meant that in another two day's time, the Rohirrim would ride out from Dunharrow and go to fight in Minas Tirith.

 _Well at least the book timeline is still in place._

 _C'mon Elanor, think! This means that in two days, Éowyn and Merry will be sneaking into the army, and everyone will be thundering off to fight for Gondor. What will you do then?_

It was fortunate that Elladan and Elrohir had not known of Éowyn's plans to ride with the Eorlingas. Perhaps if they had, Elanor would have been dragged along in the wake of the Dúnedain. She had to admit it would probably be safer than risking her neck alongside Éowyn; at least if she'd gone to deal with the Corsairs, she would have four Elves to watch her back. Here, she had no one, except the heedless niece of the King. Éowyn was, admittedly, very likeable, but hardly good company for a defenceless girl who wanted to remain alive.

Elanor's stomach clenched as she thought of what lay ahead. Even her brief visit to the battlefield of Helm's Deep had made her recoil in horror. Now, her friends—including Éowyn—were about to march into the most perilous battle yet. And it was no longer just Elladan and Elrohir she had to worry about. Glorfindel and Legolas were also there, and Aragorn. She still held book-Aragorn in high esteem, her estimation of him only enhanced by Arwen's love-struck tales.

 _And now, I have Boromir to worry about! He's probably in Gondor by now, and goodness knows if the book is going to revolt at him surviving the attack and kill him off in some other grisly way… I'm glad he made it, though. I wonder how Glorfindel managed it…_

 _What about Eärendur?_

Groaning loudly, Elanor flopped dramatically back onto her bed.

 _What on earth am I going to do about him?_

She had completely banished the young Ranger's confession from her mind whilst she was dealing with Éowyn. Deciphering the heroine's moods and feelings had been hard enough without the added complication of an unknown character falling in love with her.

 _It wasn't like I sought this out…_

 _Um, are you forgetting the son of Denethor? You kissed Boromir!_

That was painfully true. Apart from that blunder, however, Elanor had remained mercifully free of any tangled fan-fiction romances. It helped that she had Tim in the back of her mind, like a soft ache that never really went away. If she was honest with herself, she had harboured a (slight) girlish crush for Glorfindel, but their relationship was purely platonic. He was handsome and noble, but transcendently Elvish.

 _Probably good I left Rivendell when I did, otherwise I would've forgotten I was a human at all, and gotten some highfalutin notion of being an Elf and falling in love…_

But no, she had Tim.

 _And Eärendur!_

That was a frightening notion as well; the young Ranger was certainly handsome, clever and kind. But, search as she might, Elanor could not find anything more than friendship for him in her heart. Her love for Tim left no room for anyone else. It made her feel heavy with guilt, but she would have to tell the poor boy 'no' sooner or later.

 _The later, the better._

 _Tim_.

Tim was the kind of guy all the girls had liked in high school. Truthfully, Elanor had numbered among them, and been amazed and delighted when he had reciprocated her feelings. She knew there was scant likelihood she would ever see him again. Whilst even a sliver of hope remained, however, she would cling to it like a lifeline. Kissing Boromir had been a silly mistake—he was good-looking, sure, but she'd never had _feelings_ for him. Drinking that night had been a grave error, and one she would strive not to repeat. Boromir of Gondor was forty at least, and she only twenty-two. No, even if Tim were not in the picture, she would not pursue Boromir's love.

 _I still love Tim, that's the thing. It's only been six months; we didn't break up, so I can hardly force myself to get over him. And he's… he's the most wonderful guy I can imagine. No one here could be that perfect…_

 _And what about in a year's time? Will you still remain faithful to someone you will likely never see again? Would you expect Tim to do the same for you?_

 _Yes_! came the defensive reply, and her other internal voice scoffed.

 _What? If your boyfriend disappeared, presumed dead, you would never date again? That's very righteous of you!_

 _…well, when you put it like that it sounds silly!_

 _That's because it_ is _silly!_

Elanor shook her head stubbornly, hating herself for musing on it.

 _Look, I'm not deciding anything until the Ring is destroyed. We're just getting to the most intense part of the whole thing—not exactly the time to be having a discussion on the morality of dating someone new when you're forcibly parted from your boyfriend for six months! Besides, I have trouble enough with my assorted friends and adopted family. They're all over the place now, all in harm's way—except Elrond and Arwen—and I'm "in the keeping" of one of the most reckless women in Middle Earth! Imagine adding a boyfriend to_ that _mix!_

Despite the gravity of her situation, Elanor smiled to herself. Her thoughts continued to rush around like Boxing Day shoppers in the Queen Street Mall.

 _Ok… what can I actually deal with right now?_ she pondered, her rational side making a welcome reappearance. _Eärendur is a problem for later. I don't want him to be killed in battle—though that would be… no, that's a horrid thing to think, Elanor Ravenscroft! No. I can put him off after it's all over, and he'll go back to Arnor and find a nice Dúnedain girl to marry instead. That's easy. Sorted. Elladan and Elrohir… and Legolas and Aragorn and Glorfindel and Merry and Pippin… and Gandalf too… well at least if the book follows it's course, none of them will be harmed. Goodness, let's hope it does… Sam and Gimli! Oh dear, that's hardly in the novels, is it? I hope… if they shouldn't… oh that doesn't bear thinking of…_

Rolling over to her side, Elanor pulled the blankets up close to her face and stared listlessly at the tent wall. She had never been a religious person, for the grey areas of morality made faith a tenuous path to walk back home. Too many issues were difficult to comprehend, and the idea of praying to a deity she couldn't see was almost ridiculous. In Middle Earth, however, the distinction between good and evil was profoundly different; it was a matter of Sauron and his servants against the other free races. It was much easier to know what was the right thing to do.

Not to mention she'd come a long way from "seeing is believing" after magically appearing in a fantasy novel, contrary to everything she had believed possible in the realm of science.

She had read quite a bit about the god of Middle Earth in Elrond's library—called Eru—and had vague memories of Georgia saying that he was based on the Christian god. Six months previously, she would have been baffled and incredulous had someone suggested that she pray. Now, lying in a Rohirric camp and with the fate of the world lying heavy on her shoulders, Elanor closed her eyes and sent her thoughts skyward.

 ** _I don't know if you can hear me… but I guess there's no harm in trying_** **,** she began. **_I won't beat around the bush; there's a lot of awful stuff happening here. I never really thought God was real, to be honest, and I'm not even sure if you're the same as God, or if Eru is someone completely different. But if you are there… and you are loving and merciful like those weird Christians on the street once told me… please_** **please** ** _make all of this work out. Help Sam and Gimli to get to Mount Doom and destroy the Ring, and help all of my friends to stay safe in battle. Let everything just… work. And help me to do something useful and good. All I've really done is save Boromir and eat Elrond's food, so that doesn't really count… anyway… yeah. Please help. Amen._**

Fervently hoping that people hadn't been rattling on about faith and religion for nothing, Elanor adjusted herself in the cot until she was comfortable. There was honestly nothing more she could do—there was still the decision to be made about where she would go next, but that could wait. She pressed her eyelids closed and willed sleep to come. As she slipped towards darkness, several images came unbidden to her mind...

 _Georgia's laughing face morphed into the frown Tim wore when he was concentrating hard. She saw her parents embracing, love so evident in every line of their bodies that she felt her chest tighten. The images were brief and heart-wrenching, as she saw her dearest friends and the beautiful old house she had grown up in. There was Georgia's big mongrel dog, named Sirius in homage to the_ Harry Potter _novels, and a collection of galahs and parrots her father had rescued at various times and cared for until they had been naturally absorbed into the Ravenscroft household…._

 _I'm a Ravenscroft…_

Those last few weeks in Rivendell, Elanor had felt a transfixing kinship to Lord Elrond and his family. She had given her lonely heart over to him, allowing herself to be nurtured and loved as a daughter for a time. And then, some cruel twist of fate had compelled her to leave, venturing southwards in an effort to be… well… useful...

All the journey had served to do was become a poignant reminder that Rivendell was not her home, that Elrond was not her father, and that she was painfully small and tired.

She had no special role, no magnificent destiny. If there was a reason beyond saving Boromir that she'd been dragged to Middle Earth, she had not discovered it. She'd had a blissful time in Rivendell, pleasantly ignorant of how far she fell short of being an Elf. Dwelling in Lord Elrond's house was the dream of most Tolkienites, and she had physically experienced it.

 _I always thought I'd go back to Rivendell_ , she thought, her mind becoming gradually dimmer as she floated towards sleep. _Now, though, I'm not so sure… could I go back, when the Ring's destroyed? The Elves are fading already… most of them… leave once it's done… I love them all… Elrond… but is there any real point to clinging to another family I'm just going to lose?_

* * *

 **I'm sorry that this piece is so dialogue-heavy and reflectiony, but I felt like Elanor had done so much rushing round that she needed to sort her head out. She's the kind of person who needs introspective time, or else she feels like she's going loony. (Convenient for us readers, as we get to listen to her mental processes). As it is, I thought I would permit her a few hours of thinking in her tent before the action picks up again!**

 **What did you guys think of my portrayal of Éowyn? She has to be one of my favourite Tolkien Originals, and I want to get my representation of her good. If you have suggestions, please let me know. I am not adverse to going back and editing some of the chapters if a few of her mannerisms are off-target.**

 **Thanks for your support and reviews everyone! :)**

 **Finwe.**


	25. The White Lady of Rohan

**Chapter 25 - The White Lady of Rohan**

 **NOTE: this chapter is dialogue-heavy and very much a chance for me to build both Éowyn and Elanor's characters. My apologies if you're getting anxious for shipping and/or action; it's coming, I promise. ;)**

* * *

Elanor slept deeply and well for almost six hours, utterly exhausted from her break-neck adventures. When she woke, her tent was suffused in a warm glow.

For a few minutes, it was glorious to simply lie upon her camp-bed, swaddled in the cosy blankets and admiring the way the sunlight gleamed upon the canvas above her. The camp at Dunharrow was quiet, for it held but a fraction of the mustered army. Apart from the occasional snorting of a horse, it was quiet and tranquil.

 _I should get up_ , she thought, knowing it was close on midday and Éowyn would expect her for lunch. After another moment's inactivity, she heaved herself upwards. Her muscles had grown even stiffer from her nap; only the promise of food and feminine company drove her to her feet.

Her pack was lying on it's side, many of her clothing spilling out from her hasty retrieval of _The Lord of the Rings_. Most were crumpled and soiled, and she wrinkled her nose as she tossed these aside. Somehow, she had made do with only two outfit changes between Rivendell and Helm's Deep. As horrifying as that was to her delicate sensibilities, she felt no small amount of pride to have put aside her meticulous hygiene for the journey.

 _Georgia would be extremely proud_ , she admitted ruefully.

Having packed with extreme care, she still had two full sets of clean attire, tucked in the bottom of her pack. Both were unremarkable, being the shirts, tunics and surcoats she was accustomed to wearing amongst the Elves. Luckily for her, the Rohirrim were fairly relaxed in their styles of dress. If Éowyn's attire was anything to go by, women were permitted to dress in sensible clothing.

 _Bless the Elves for their fabric-making! These things are hardly crumpled!_

Her two fresh outfits were both in surprisingly good shape, and she laid one upon her bed.

Moving to the opposite side of the tent, she surveyed the utilitarian washbasin. It was large and full of clean water, supplemented with a cake of coarse soap and a towel. In the corner nearby was a large wooden tub with more water, sitting directly on the grass.

After lacing the flap of her tent firmly closed, Elanor began to scrub herself clean.

* * *

An hour later, Elanor was following a Rohirric soldier towards the same pavilion she had breakfasted in. She had enjoyed the luxury of a thorough bathe, making the most of the plentiful supply of soap and water to scrub herself from top to toe. Whilst it certainly hadn't improved the tangled state of her hair, she felt infinitely better. Her curls were dealt with by a vigorous finger-combing, and neatly braided with the aid of a small and dirty mirror she had discovered. She had dressed in a long-sleeved shirt of soft cream and tan breeches, overlaid with a steel blue tunic. Compared to her old lifestyle, such a method of bathing was absolutely pitiful. After months living in a medieval society, a careful sponge-bath seemed luxurious.

As they approached the tent, Elanor noticed the sides had been rolled up to admit the midday sun. The air was still cold, but the warm rays certainly lessened the bite of the mountain air.

Éowyn was seated at the table when Elanor arrived, her eyes scanning swiftly over several documents. When she caught sight of her guest, she placed them to one side and stood.

Both women repeated the civilities of earlier that morning, and Éowyn dismissed the soldier who had escorted Elanor with a nod.

The Lady of Rohan gave her a cool smile.

"You appear refreshed, Lady Elanor. I take it you had good rest?"

"Very good," Elanor nodded, in reply. Éowyn moved to one end of the table, where their lunch was waiting. In a few deft movements, she had gathered up the various dishes and carried them to where Elanor sat.

"I hope you do not mind that we have none to wait on us," she said, offering the loaf of bread to Elanor.

"Not at all. I have spent many weeks in the saddle, sleeping rough and without ceremony. I think having a chair and table is quite overwhelming enough," Elanor smiled.

Éowyn responded in kind, though her lips scarcely moved and she seemed clouded with sorrow and responsibility once more. Her movements were not unfriendly, but neither were they warm. Had Elanor not been privy to _The Lord of the Rings_ , she would have thought Éowyn extremely chilly and distant. As it was, she saw beneath the icy facade. Elanor realised she'd harboured secret hopes of finding a friend in the Rohirric woman, and she was determined to try and reach her for her own sake. It was not that Éowyn was unobliging or silent, but that all of her words were touched by a biting frost.

 _How was it that Tolkien described her? Fair and cold… like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood… he's got a knack for capturing people in a few words… or is she like this because he wrote it so? Gee, that could be a philosophical quandary!_

Still, it was easier to focus on drawing Éowyn out than the homesickness and multitude of other problems fluttering in the back of Elanor's consciousness.

"King Théoden is your uncle, isn't he?" she asked, though it was a question she already knew the answer to.

"Yes; my father was Éomund, and my mother Theodwyn, sister to the king. I have dwelled in my uncle's house since I was a small child, when my parents died." She spoke with detached neutrality, seemingly unaffected by the sorrowful memories.

"I am sorry for your loss," Elanor said, gently. "I know something of that feeling."

Éowyn lifted her grey eyes from her meal, studying her companion with a calculating stare.

"I also lost both my parents," proffered Elanor, after the silence grew heavy. "I believe I told you that I come from an island to the south, and until but recently I dwelt there with my mother, father and sister." When Éowyn seemed to expect an explanation for their deaths, Elanor said shortly, "We were waylaid upon the road by wild-men."

"A foul people, more animal than human."

"Indeed."

"And you have wintered with the Elves since then?"

"Yes. In Rivendell. It is beautiful there," Elanor smiled, thinking on the wondrous gardens and merry faces of the Elves therein.

 _Much nicer than thinking of how my parents and sister were killed! Bit of a grisly story, but that seems to be the way of things here._

"And what of the beauty of the south?" Éowyn asked, cool grey eyes moving beyond the pavilion to the view which stretched below. "The Riddermark is wild, and it's people noble and proud. Great plains we have, and mountains also; mighty tree, endless grass, swift-flowing river. You have seen but a glimpse of the magnificence of the Westfold, and ere long the Eorlingas ride east, to war." At this she paused, and in her profile Elanor could read deep longing. "And yet, mighty men and tall come hither from the North in your company, Lady Elanor," she continued, smoothing her features and turning back to the other woman. "Pray, tell me of these Rangers of the North, for greatly do I desire to hear of those so lordly as they make the greatest amongst the Rohirrim appear as children."

That, she realised, was code for, "tell me about Aragorn." For an instant, Elanor was tempted to tell Éowyn a few home truths, particularly with regard to her foster-sister's romance with the king-to-be.

 _But will bluntness do anything more than chip and crack ice? You'll only destroy her trust if you charge ahead and tell her she should stop mooning over Aragorn and that she's going to fall in love with Faramir soon anyway!_

"The Dúnedain?"

"Yea, Lady Elanor; and of your Elvish companions I would hear more also, for those whom claim kinship with you as foster-brothers are proud and stern also."

"The Dúnedain are, I believe, the remnants of the North-kingdom of Arnor, once associated with Gondor," began Elanor, slowly. "I did not travel much in the north, so I don't know very much about where the Dúnedain live, exactly, or if they have cities at all. The land is decaying, and even though many of those men claim kinship with the Steward of Gondor and the old line of Kings, they are—well, what is left of the kingdom is a group of hardened men in grey cloaks. It is not bright or splendid, as of old. They defend the free lands to the north from evil. There are several hobbits who travelled with the company who live nearby, under the protection of the Rangers."

Éowyn nodded slowly, though she frowned slightly. "Hobbits? You surely do not mean halfling folk? I have not heard of such a people, save in myth and legend!"

"The very same. Except they aren't out of legend, but quite real, and I am well acquainted with several of them," Elanor laughed, as she made use of the pause to consume another mouthful of her lunch. "In fact, one of them—Merry—is on his way here with King Théoden as we speak."

"Indeed?" Éowyn inquired, appearing moved by a measure of interest.

Elanor nodded as she chewed and swallowed. "Quite. They are a cheerful, hardy folk, and very tough, for though they look small one should not underestimate them," she added, wondering how near she dared approach the concept of Merry going to war with Éowyn.

"A people of great valour, then?"

"Well, not exactly. Many have accomplished feats which are incredible considering their size, for they're less than four feet tall, as a rule. But they are hardly a warlike people. In fact, those hobbits I do know who ventured far afield were regarded as shameful and peculiar."

For a moment the two women looked at each other, before Éowyn said simply, "The Rohirrim are a warlike people, Lady Elanor, and none so much as the House of Eorl."

"I can see as much."

Éowyn turned to gaze outwards from the pavilion once more. "And I am fated to see it's ruin and disgrace," she whispered, so low that Elanor barely caught it.

 _And now we come to the crux of the matter._

"Disgraced, Lady Éowyn?"

The woman laughed bitterly, the sound colder than a howling gale. "Aye indeed, Elanor of Imladris."

Elanor hesitated, before throwing caution to the wind.

"Do you speak of your uncle's sickness?"

For half a moment, she thought Éowyn might slap her. A cold fire kindled in her eyes, flickering bitter and grey, before being extinguished as swiftly as it had come. Then she rose from her chair, moving with proud grace until she stood facing Harrowdale. Her back was tall and straight, like an iron rod. She remained there, her hands clenched at her sides, before she sighed.

Worried that she had offended her, Elanor pushed back her chair and was just moving forward when Éowyn spoke again.

"From whence does hope come, lady?"

Elanor halted mid-stride, caught unawares by the question.

 _Why on earth is she asking me these things? I'm a complete stranger!_

 _Yes, and one of the few people she is able to speak with! Remember, she's tended her uncle and king for years with little joy or company, and she doesn't have any female immediate family. Is it so crazy she talks to someone who's done the things she longs to do? Travelled far from home? Accompanied a war party south? And turned down the chance to ride with Aragorn? Remember, he forbade her from going! Even Elladan and Elrohir would have allowed you to go, if you really wanted to!_

Éowyn turned, her steely eyes boring into Elanor.

Seized by a sudden impulse, she moved forward until she stood eye to eye with the Rohirric woman. Éowyn had the advantage of height, but Elanor was only an inch shorter. Resisting the peculiar urge to laugh, she reached out and grasped the other woman's shoulder:

"There is always hope."

If she had expected a great display of emotion from the stern shield-maiden, she was to be disappointed. Éowyn gave a brief nod and Elanor removed her hand.

"And yet, the light of hope is dim and distant in these times," the former said, one side of her mouth quirking slightly. "It seems you are closer to it's source than I."

 _Well, you know, it helps having read a book which tells precisely how this whole thing will work out._ _Also, I just quoted one of Aragorn's most famous movie lines, and you didn't bat an eyelid. Georgia would be killing herself laughing right now…_

"I am sure that there is good to come," Elanor smiled, green eyes twinkling as she recalled the last time she'd watched _The Lord of the Rings_ with her sister. "And I hope you can believe as much too."

Éowyn's eyes were grave, but she smiled then.

"You are well-assured, Lady Elanor."

"There are many mighty men who fight on our side, Lady Éowyn," she reminded her, "and Lord Aragorn is but one. The Dúnedain cannot be counted by mere numbers, for they are valiant, and though I am quite biased towards my foster-brothers, the Elves are still mighty in this age. Not to mention there is a host of Rohirrim assembling to march to war!"

"To war! The province of men, where they might freely seek renown," cried the shield-maiden, and Elanor quickly attempted to steer the conversation out of such dangerous territory.

"Renown in battle is not everything, Lady Éowyn. Come, sit; we haven't finished eating, and I confess I am hungry after travelling on short rations for several weeks."

Éowyn smiled slightly at that.

"You are as stern as steel, Lady Elanor, to travel so far with such a mighty company."

Elanor could not help the laughter which bubbled up.

"Stern as steel? No indeed! That's an apt description for yourself, I'm sure. I, on the other hand, have been out of my depth since I departed from Rivendell, and am profoundly thankful to find myself here safely with you." _Even if you are going to sneak into the army in two days and either leave me here alone, or drag me on with you!_

Éowyn studied her for a moment, though much of the sharpness was gone from her glance. "Do not count yourself so low, Lady Elanor. You are evidently held in high regard by your companions."

Elanor laughed again. "Perhaps, though they would have to say that whilst I was around. Now I am going to be frank with you; I have precious few female friends, save my foster-sister. I have not seen my blood-sister in months, and I am rather tired of being called 'Lady Elanor' at every moment. My closest companions have just departed on a perilous errand, and if you could call me plain 'Elanor' I would appreciate it very much. I am in dire need of a friend."

"You know much of the world," remarked Éowyn, after a brief pause. The pair had returned to the table, and Elanor had dropped her gaze to her meal after her speech. She hoped fervently she hadn't discomfited the other woman by the display of vulnerability. "You have travelled far, and are wise in speech and glance." Éowyn paused, and when Elanor glanced up from her bread she was wearing a weary smile. "Few friends have I possessed in recent years, for my uncle's illness has made me a thrall at his bedside. To Gandalf do I owe great thanks, for he has freed me from the burden that duty pressed upon me. And yet—" She broke off.

Elanor didn't quite know what to do, amazed that Éowyn was being so forthright.

"I asked you to share a meal with me, for I believed you to be one whom I might speak directly to. You do not speak of frivolities," she added, an almost playful smile tugging at her lips. "I am grateful for that, and should be glad to count you a friend."

"Frivolities?" laughed Elanor. "Perhaps in past, but not anymore. Surviving is trouble enough!"

Éowyn returned to her own meal then, expression considerably lighter than before.

 _She's still going to take a while to thaw out, but at least she's willing to act as friends!_

"Your brother is a Marshal, isn't he?" Elanor asked, taking some more bread and ham.

This brought Éowyn's warmest smile yet. "Indeed; Éomer is Third Marshal of the Mark. He has earned such an honour, for he is a shrewd commander, and leads the men well. Have you met him already?"

"Yes, at Helm's Deep, but only briefly. I came on with the Grey Company, but I should like to speak with him again." She bit into the bread and ham, chewing and swallowing before she spoke again. "I envy you a brother. I had only my younger sister, Georgia. You would have liked her a great deal."

"Would you tell me of her?" Éowyn asked.

"She is…" Elanor paused, wondering just how to sum up her little sister to the noble lady before her. In truth, Éowyn had been Georgia's favourite heroine for many years, and there was a certain resemblance between the two. Both had spirit and fire, and wouldn't stand for being left behind while the men went out to fight. They were both physically capable and fearless, something Elanor had always envied her sister for. She hadn't been uncoordinated exactly, but Georgia had the grit, determination and vigour which would have appealed to Éowyn. Elanor half-wished Georgia was there instead at that moment, for she would have handled the Lady of Rohan far better. Not to mention she knew Éowyn's story inside and out, and had always idolised the tall blonde woman.

"She is quick and merry," Elanor managed at last, managing a small smile past the flood of melancholy recollections. "She has great spirit and strength, and is courageous and clever. We're almost opposites actually; she is spontaneous and carefree, and I like planning and organisation and structure." She laughed ruefully at that, her eyes unfocused as she dwelt in memory. "I was always second-best in every contest to Georgia, and she formed friendships so easily. She is also clever, and extremely beautiful; curly hair, but darker than mine, and she has hazel eyes. A little shorter, but wiry, and nimble. Goodness, I always envied her for her figure! Kind too, always thinking of other people, and generous almost to a fault."

"You speak as if she lives still," remarked Éowyn quietly, as Elanor faltered.

She smiled blearily.

"To me, she does. She was irascible and feckless at times, but always the—always the most lively person at any gathering." When Éowyn was not forthcoming with another comment, Elanor smiled. "Just before... well... I was frustrated that Georgia was taking so long to farewell a group of friends, when I wanted to continue. I cannot believe that she is gone, nor say 'was' or 'used to be'."

 _Careful, you're wandering to dangerous territory!_

"That is a sad tale."

"Yes, though I have been fortunate in the friends I have found."

Éowyn nodded, and refrained from pushing the issue. "Georgia is a peculiar name, not one I have heard before. What is it's origin?"

"Gosh, I don't know," she laughed, harrying her nostalgia away. "Though it is the feminine form of George. We have had many kings with that name."

"I see. Who rules your land, La—Elanor?" She smiled fleetingly at the almost-slip.

"We have a queen at the moment; Queen Elizabeth."

 _Imagine if I had to try and explain the prime ministers… especially the Gillard-Rudd and Abbott-Turnbull leadership scandals._

"A queen?"

"Yes, we have been ruled by a queen for over sixty years," Elanor smiled, seeing the excitement that such a statement inspired in her new friend. "She is a sweet, little thing, and very old now. Her grandson has married recently, and has two heirs."

"It is peculiar that women are permitted to rule in your land," mused Éowyn.

"I suppose it is, though I was raised believing it to be normal."

 _Éowyn would have made the best 21st-century feminist… if I ever get back, maybe I'll take her with me…_

"You are fortunate."

Elanor grinned. "Indeed I am, though amongst the Elves women are considered equal in every respect. _Elleths_ , female Elves, are more inclined towards healing and such rather than battle, but they are well-trained nonetheless."

Éowyn looked deeply envious at this, and she shook her head. "I admit I begrudge you such luxuries. Come, though; we have lingered long, and the day grows older!"

"Yes, we've been here for quite some time," Elanor replied, pushing her plate away. "I have not seen my horse since I arrived last night. Would I be able to go and visit him now?"

"Naturally; I shall take you to him."

* * *

The two women departed the pavilion, walking stride-for-stride. Éowyn angled to the western side of the meadow, and Elanor caught sight of a group of tethered horses. It took her a moment to locate Fundanár, for the Rohirrim had many chestnuts and bays amongst their mounts. She discovered her doe-eyed gelding at the end of the second line, after weaving amongst the unfamiliar horses for a few minutes.

Fundanár raised an intelligent head when Elanor drew near and nickered low. He had a white blaze stretching from forelock to muzzle, and his ears pricked eagerly.

"Here is a magnificent steed, worthy of a prince!" cried Éowyn, though she held back as Elanor greeted her horse. "Truly, the mounts of the Elves are worthy of admiration, even amongst the Horse-lords!"

Elanor smiled broadly, a proud flush staining her cheeks as she pressed her hand against Fundanár's forehead. He pushed against her affectionately, shifting slightly on his slender hooves. She felt a deep sense of satisfaction in having such a wonderful horse, and an even greater enjoyment knowing she had improved dramatically in her horsemanship. For once, she felt confident that she could have bested Georgia in a contest.

"He is beautiful, isn't he? I was given him to ride when we left Rivendell, and he has been an invaluable companion on the journey." She turned to Éowyn, smiling. "Please, come meet him. He is as gentle as a lamb, and as clever as a fox!"

Having received permission, Éowyn moved forward with a pleased expression. She rubbed the gelding's forehead, before slipping her hand down his neck and to his shoulder. Moving around him, she inspected his legs, back, shoulders and hindquarters.

"What do you think?" laughed Elanor, glad to find some more common ground with the woman.

"He would rival the destriers of the greatest riders," Éowyn admitted, with a half-grin. "What is he called?"

"Fundanár, which means 'thundering fire' in the tongue of the High Elves," replied Elanor, glad she had spent some time perusing a few Quenya translations before leaving Rivendell.

"An apt name; he is the colour of flames upon the hearth." Éowyn's gaze flickered up and down his tall form.

Fundanár snorted at this, his mane flopping carelessly. The woman's words were true, for he was a bright blood chestnut, and the light gleamed pleasantly on his silky coat. His mane was slightly lighter, having flaxen highlights. Elanor had never seen such a glorious chestnut coat before, though she supposed it was because of his Elvish ancestry.

"You are most fortunate to own such a steed," admitted Éowyn, a touch of envy in her voice. "Horses are prized above all else in the Riddermark, and many a Rider should give his right hand to own this one. Be careful, or my brother may just take him from you!"

Elanor chuckled, scratching Fundanár's jaw. "He shall have to answer to Lord Elrond then, for I doubt he is truly mine."

"He is of a different bloodstock to our horses. See his slender lines?" Éowyn ran a practiced hand down the inside of his leg. "He is far less sturdy than our warhorses, though he is large enough."

Elanor nodded, for the gelding was well over sixteen hands in her estimate. She turned to survey the other horses picketed nearby; all were powerful beasts, as tall as Fundanár but heavier set, as Éowyn had remarked.

"All the Elvish horses are built so, though the Elves are lighter and carry less armour than men, I suppose," Elanor shrugged, reaching out to scratch a docile grey standing nearby.

"Indeed."

They stood in silence for a time, Elanor delighted to have found the other woman's soft spot. After a few minutes Éowyn met her gaze across Fundanár's withers.

"Would you like to meet Windfola, Elanor?"

"Certainly," she replied, with a sparkle. Éowyn turned and led her further along the picket-lines, halting before a mighty grey.

As they approached, Éowyn gave a low whistle. The big grey stallion raised his head, and Elanor marvelled at his size and strength. Where Fundanár was slim and graceful, Windfola was broad across the chest and with great, muscular quarters. He reached his nose out towards Éowyn as she approached, greeting the horse with quiet dignity.

Realising that the Rohirrim were precious with their horses, Elanor waited at a distance until Éowyn turned to her.

"He is proud, but gentle," she said, one arm resting upon his neck.

Elanor approached at an even pace, holding her palm outstretched to the mighty stallion. He was a dark iron-grey, but something in his build and bearing reminded her of movie-Shadowfax.

"He is wonderful," she admitted, truthfully. As much as Éowyn had gushed over Fundanár, she realised that Windfola was easily his equal.

"He is one of the _mearas,_ the descendants of Felaróf."

"Then it is no wonder!" Elanor laughed. "Though I did not know of any mearas besides Shadowfax, Gandalf's steed."

"It is a wonder you know of the _mearas_ at all, Elanor—you are indeed full of strange knowledge," frowned Éowyn. "None may ride the descendants of Felaróf save the King, and his heirs. Snowmane, uncle's horse, has a greater lineage than Windfola, and a closer kinship with Shadowfax, the greatest of their number in this age."

"Well, Windfola is magnificent," said Elanor, decidedly, hoping to distract Éowyn from her unusual knowledge of all things Middle Earth. Feeling rather mischievous, she added, "He would easily carry two riders."

Éowyn frowned thoughtfully, her grey eyes clouded. Then she nodded. "Perhaps, were the riders not laden with overly heavy armour…"

Grinning into Windfola's neck, Elanor felt a rush of triumph. At this rate, Éowyn would still be charging into battle with Merry before her, despite her interference. As much as she hated seeing the other woman so unhappy, she knew it was integral that Éowyn kill the Witch-king outside Minas Tirith. Apart from saving Boromir, she could think of no other changes which would benefit the story. The prospect of egging the other woman on to fight was not a pleasant one, however.

 _People die in war, and much as been changed; if I alter things too much, Éowyn may not survive the battle. And as understanding as my foster-family is, I can imagine even merry Glorfindel holding me to account if I were responsible for her death…_

Making her mind up to speak with Éowyn about it more directly later, Elanor continued rubbing Windfola's dappled neck. A soft smile touched her face, her troubles far away as she enjoyed what little pleasure was left in the world.

* * *

 **And there you have more on Lady Éowyn!**

 **I hope you like her characterisation thus far. It's hard to find a balance; I want her to be the kind of fun girl-friend Elanor could be light-hearted with, but to remain true to the books there's a certain coolness that she has to carry as well. However, rest assured that there is plenty of fun to be had between Éowyn and Elanor in future! What's a Girl in Middle Earth without her confidante? :P**

 **I am sorry that this chapter is so much dialogue, and so little action; there will definitely be more of that later. I think you may even get a bit of Glorfindel POV in the next chapter! Huzzah.**

 **Anyways, this scene takes place on the 8th March, and the Rohirrim depart on the 10th. Action and adventure coming soon!**

 **Thanks for your patience,**

 **Finwe.**


	26. Hail, Lord of the Mark!

**Chapter 26 - Hail, Lord of the Mark!**

* * *

 **9th March, 3019 (Third Age)**

The coming of Théoden was like an earthquake.

Elanor was seated with Éowyn in one of the central pavilions the next day when a deep rumbling caught her attention. The two women had been discussing weaponry—another topic which lit up Éowyn's grey eyes—when the thundering of hoofbeats interrupted their discussion.

The king's niece rose gracefully.

"Come; King Théoden approaches," she said. Éowyn led the way towards the edge of the high meadow, pausing at the foot of the path by which her uncle would reach the Firienfeld.

Elanor was not particularly squeamish around heights, but she found it rather alarming to stand so close to the brink of the mountain fortress. It looked like miles down to the valley floor below, and a persistent breeze swirled around her body. Éowyn's eyes were fixed upon the valley's entrance, and as Elanor turned there herself she caught a flicker of movement.

It was as if a great, writhing mass of brown and grey poured into Harrowdale. Hundreds of horsemen, bedecked in glinting armour, thudded across the rich green grass. Even from the top of the cliff, Elanor could feel the earth tremble beneath the horse's hooves. She had no way of counting the horsemen, though it looked like thousands. As Théoden's company spilled across the emerald meadow, she was overcome by the majesty of the scene; it was another sharp reminder that she was in a storybook, witnessing the valiant race to war.

A group at the head of the column broke apart from the others. The remainder of the soldiers scattered across the lower valley, taking up residence in the rows of tents which housed the riders who had already gathered. The smaller contingent sped straight through, approaching the foot of the cliff upon which Elanor stood.

It seemed to take forever for the king's detachment to reach them, for the path up to Dunharrow zig-zagged slowly across the face of the cliff. Finally, however, Elanor glanced over the lip and saw that they were just below. A moment later, King Théoden crested the top of the path on his magnificent light grey warhorse.

"Hail, Lord of the Mark!" cried Éowyn. "My heart is glad at your returning."

"And you, Éowyn," said Théoden, dismounting. "Is all well with you?"

"All is well," she answered, and while Elanor caught a touch of distress in her voice, she seemed quite well composed. "All is well. It was a weary road for the people to take, torn suddenly from their homes. There were hard words, for it is long since war has driven us from the green fields; but there have been no evil deeds. All is now ordered, as you see. And your lodging is prepared for you; for I have full tidings of you and knew the hour of your coming."

"So Aragorn has come then," said a voice Elanor recognised as Éomer, halting near his uncle. "Is he still here?"

"No, he is gone," said Éowyn, turning away and looking at the mountains dark against the east and south.

"Whither did he go?" asked Éomer.

"I do not know," she answered. "He came at night, and rode away yestermorn, ere the Sun climbed over the mountain-tops. He is gone."

"You are grieved, daughter," said Théoden, pulling his helm from his head and moving a little closer. "What has happened? Tell me, did he speak of that road?" He pointed away along the darkening line of stones that Elanor knew Aragorn had taken. "Of the Paths of the Dead?"

"Yes, lord," said Éowyn, "and he has passed into the shadows from which none have returned. I could not dissuade him. He is gone."

"Then our paths are sundered," said Éomer. "He is lost. We must ride without him, and our hope dwindles."

Elanor bridled inwardly at this remark, and she gave a short _hmph_. Cheeks warm, she realised she had captured the king's attention with her low grunt.

Théoden's blue eyes met hers, and Elanor took a moment to study his face. His hair was like snow, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He was a little stooped, but still towered over six feet, and his face was proud and grave. He looked to be about seventy, far older than Elanor had anticipated. Perhaps his most distinguishing feature was the great white beard which fell midway down his chest.

"This is Lady Elanor, of Rivendell, uncle," Éowyn said. "She rode with Lord Aragorn's company, and remained here when they chose their perilous road."

Théoden inclined his head slightly. "Then I fear you are all that is left of that company, my Lady Elanor; wise indeed you are, to avoid the shadow of the mountain."

She couldn't help but smile as she bowed in return.

"I have known Aragorn for a short while, but if any were to pass by that road unscathed, it would be he, Your Majesty," replied Elanor, a note of amusement in her voice. The Rohirrim were extremely superstitious, and whilst she couldn't blame them, she wished they were a little less doom-and-gloom about Aragorn's likelihood of survival.

Théoden surveyed her acutely for a moment. "You are hopeful."

"They are as capable a company as I have ever seen." _Even if they're one of the first and only companies I have ever seen._

The king looked thoughtful at that, before nodding once more. "I dearly hope you are correct, Lady Elanor." Then, turning to Éowyn, he gave a weary smile. "Come, sister-daughter, for there are many things to speak of."

A rider Elanor did not recognise moved forward to take Théoden's reins, and the pair walked back towards the centre of the valley. Unsure what she was supposed to do, Elanor watched whilst Éomer dismounted and moved towards her.

"Well met, Lady Elanor," he said, bowing briefly.

"And you, Lord Éomer," she replied, nodding with less deference than she had reserved for King Théoden. Part of her was still slightly injured at his less-than-courteous greeting back at Helm's Deep.

"I am gladdened that you have found the company of my sister," he said, reaching up to slip his reins over his horse's head with surprising ease; his horse was a mighty destrier, but Éomer stood almost of a height with Aragorn.

 _Lucky… he has no idea how hard that is with Fundanár…_

"So am I," she replied truthfully, willing herself to be polite. She glanced around, still seeking one familiar figure. "Did the hobbit Meriadoc travel with you, Lord Éomer?"

"Indeed he did," he replied, an amused smile transforming his otherwise grim face. "He should not be far off. Come, we shall seek him out. Is he a friend of yours?"

"Yes; we dwelled in Rivendell together for some months."

"Amongst the Elves?"

"Yes."

Éomer's expression hardened a little at this, but he merely nodded. His horse trailing behind, the pair wove past the main part of the king's retinue. After a moment Elanor spied a pony amidst the huge warhorses.

"Merry!" she smiled, hurrying forward.

The hobbit was on the other side of his pony, but hearing his name he peered over it's withers. Seeing Elanor, he grinned broadly.

"Lady Elanor! I had feared you journeyed on with the others, but you are here after all! This is happy news," Merry smiled, moving so his pony no longer stood between them. His brown hair was tousled, but his eyes were as bright as ever.

Feeling acutely conscious of Éomer's eagle-eyed stare at her back, Elanor held out a hand to shake with Merry. The hobbit took it solemnly, twinkling at her. She wished Éomer was not present, for if he was as traditional as he was superstitious he would fiercely disapprove of her embracing Merry.

 _Better to be safe than sorry_.

After assuring each other they were in one piece, Elanor turned back to Éomer, who was watching with a masked expression. Seeing they were finished their greetings, the king's nephew called to a nearby solider.

"The king's esquire requires lodgings," he said.

"Yes, my lord," nodded the other horseman, before approaching Merry with a smile and leading him towards the village of tents.

Elanor was somewhat taken aback as the hobbit was swept away. She turned back to the Rohirric man, wondering whether to question his rudeness. She had hoped to accompany Merry, for the coming events greatly concerned the young halfling. Seeing Éomer's cool grey eyes however, she pressed her lips together.

"King Théoden awaits us, Lady Elanor," he said.

 _A demand, and not a request. Goodness, what I wouldn't give to take this man down a peg or two!_

"Of course," she smiled, her expression sickly-sweet. He waited for her to approach and then continued beside her.

Forgetting herself for a moment, Elanor began to reach for his arm as she had become accustomed to doing with Glorfindel. Her arm half-extended, she bit her lip and allowed it to drop to her side. Éomer did not appear to notice, striding proudly with his horse in tow. She had never been accustomed to the gentlemanly courtesies before coming to Middle Earth; Tim was gentle and polite, but had not been one to open every door and hold her arm at every turn. The Elves did not coddle their womenfolk, but they certainly treasured them. The other men she had encountered—namely the Dúnedain and Boromir—regarded her as positively fragile. It had irked her at the time, for though she made no pretence at being as hardy as a man, she felt more capable than they had given her credit for.

 _And here you are walking with the future king of Rohan, who doesn't coddle you but regards you as something of an equal, and you're annoyed about it!_

She smiled faintly to herself, amused at the changes in attitude that had taken place within her. However, she couldn't quite shake the thought that she would have much preferred to be walking beside the golden-haired Elf lord, chatting in their jovial way. Her foster-brothers were easy companions, but she regarded Glorfindel as much as a brother as they.

 _Not to mention we look more alike._

That was certainly true.

"Do you know aught of what lies ahead for yourself, Lady Elanor?" inquired Éomer.

"No-o," replied Elanor, slowly. "It depends upon your sister."

Éomer was silent for a moment, before turning to look at her for the first time. "I shall be glad that another goes whither she goes; she needs one to temper and lighten her. She has endured many sorrows."

"I can see as much," she nodded. The man responded in kind, for they swift approached the king's pavilion, and as they did so a trumpet sounded across the Firienfeld.

In the inner part of the pavilion was a small space, curtained off with broidered hangings, and strewn with skins; and near a small table stood Théoden and Éowyn, and a mighty man with strawberry-blonde hair. Éomer and Elanor were approached by a tall warrior who said something to the former in the sonorous tongue of Rohan. Éomer seemed to hesitate, and then gave a reluctant nod and passed the other man the reins of his horse. He watched him lead the animal away with great chagrin, before returning his attention to the scene at hand.

"Join us, Éomer sister-son; and you also, Lady Elanor, for Éowyn has told me much of your doings, and that you are wise in the lore of many peoples, not least the Riddermark. I should welcome you at my table," the king intoned, gesturing with an open hand. Éomer moved to his sister's side, and they greeted each other with gentle touch and wordless gesture. Elanor, feeling very much a stranger, did as she was bidden and took a seat beside the strange man with the slightly ruddy hair. To her delight, however, a second soldier entered with Merry in tow at that moment. As the king's esquire, the hobbit was left standing at Théoden's right shoulder. After a few minutes, he seemed to come to himself.

"Come, Master Meriadoc!" he said. "You shall not stand. You shall sit beside me, as long as I remain in my own lands, and lighten my heart with tales."

Room was made for the hobbit at the king's left hand, but no one called for any tale. There was indeed little speech, and they ate and drank for the most part in silence.

Elanor was unsure whether to speak out, for the customs of Elves seemed very far removed from the rustic and hale land of Rohan. Merry, however, appeared unable to stem his curiosity. She watched as he plucked up his courage.

"Twice now, lord, I have heard of the Paths of the Dead," he said. "What are they? And where has Strider, I mean the Lord Aragorn, where has he gone?"

The king sighed, but no one answered, until at last Éomer spoke. "We do not know, and our hearts are heavy," he said. "But as for the Paths of the Dead, you have yourself walked on their first steps. Nay, I speak no words of ill omen! The road that we have climbed is the approach to the Door, yonder in the Dimholt. But what lies beyond no man knows."

"No man knows," said Théoden: "yet ancient legend, now seldom spoken, has somewhat to report. If these old tales speak true that have come down from father to son in the House of Eorl, then the Door under Dwimorberg leads to a secret way that goes beneath the mountain to some forgotten

end. But none have ever ventured in to search its secrets, since Baldor, son of Brego, passed the Door and was never seen among men again. A rash vow he spoke, as he drained the horn at that feast which Brego made to hallow new-built Meduseld, and he came never to the high seat of which he was the heir.

"Folk say that Dead Men out of the Dark Years guard the way and will suffer no living man to come to their hidden halls; but at whiles they may themselves be seen passing out of the door like shadows and down the stony road. Then the people of Harrowdale shut fast their doors and shroud their windows and are afraid. But the Dead come seldom forth and only at times of great unquiet and coming death."

Elanor listened, rapt. The story was mystical and… well… illusory. Even though she had been repeatedly reminded how insular Arda was, it still came as a shock that the Rohirrim hadn't heard of the Army of the Dead.

 _I guess that's what happens with a complete lack of record-keeping, low literacy, and a whole lot of mystery and superstition… probably no one spoke of the oath-breaking to the Rohirrim, and so they just assume…_

She sighed inwardly. It had been weeks since she'd read over the histories of Middle Earth, and _The Silmarillion_ had little to say of Rohan. She couldn't remember the precise dates of events such as those; little matters had been crowded out by the things she was forced to remember for the sake of survival.

"Yet it is said in Harrowdale," said Éowyn in a low voice, "that in the moonless nights but little while ago a great host in strange array passed by. Whence they came none knew, but they went up the stony road and vanished into the hill, as if they went to keep a tryst."

"Then why has Aragorn gone that way?" asked Merry. "Don't you know anything that would explain it?"

"Unless he has spoken words to you as his friend that we have not heard," said Éomer, "none now in the land of the living can tell his purpose."

 _Well that's not entirely true._

Elanor's face must have belied her, for Éowyn caught her eye for a moment. Her elder brother seemed to follow her gaze, and his shrewd glance read her expression clearly.

"And yet it seems that one of our number is not so ill informed! What light may you shed upon the matter, Lady Elanor of Rivendell?" he inquired, with a trace of incredulity. "The fey spirit of the Elves hath given thee powers beyond other mortals, perhaps?"

 _Goodness me, that's a pickle!_

Elanor was at once besieged by five pairs of eyes, including the Rohirric soldier she had heard Éomer call Dúnhere. Merry appeared utterly astonished, and Théoden's brow was furrowed with the intensity of his stare. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts before she spoke.

"Many of those who walk the Paths of the Dead I count among my friends," she said, softly. _Elladan, Elrohir, Halbarad, Glorfindel, Aragorn, Legolas… Eärendur, even, and Hithraur and the others…_

 _"_ War separates many friends," remarked Éomer carelessly, and Elanor was unable to stop herself quirking an eyebrow at him.

"And yet that is little comfort," she countered. "What is more reassuring is this; Aragorn goes in search of more warriors to ensure victory in the coming war." _Too much? Too little? It's as precarious as walking a tight rope!_

Elanor found it increasingly difficult to keep ahold of the various lies, background stories and justifications she had accumulated, and sent her second fervent prayer skyward to Eru that she hadn't made an irreparable blunder.

"What good could come of such a path?" cried Éowyn, genuinely distressed. "Such a great risk—on the eve of battle! Could not his own strength of arms been aid enough?" Any sense of hope which Elanor had managed to impress upon her seemed torn to shreds in the light of her uncle's old wives tales. She felt her words die on the tip of her tongue, and her forehead wrinkled with anguish.

"A great deal of good!" Elanor returned, steeling herself for the barrage of questions which were sure to come. "I have—there—my people have a measure of foresight," she began, pausing briefly to survey the various reactions. It appeared promising. "I have been bequeathed with a certain—understanding, of future events—nothing to do with the Elves—" this directed at Éomer in a biting tone "—and I know some of what is to come; enough that I am assured of the importance of Lord Aragorn's mission, that he shall counter a great threat from the south, and that all shall be well ere the end." _Even if you, Théoden, will die, and you, Éowyn, almost join him in... well... wherever you go when you die in Rohan._

Silence met her speech.

"Sage words, and yet I see little evidence that you speak true," put in Éomer, after a moment. Elanor turned to him once more, feeling increasingly short-tempered with the man. He was extremely proud and possessed a fieriness of spirit that was certainly admirable; his propensity for brashness, however, Elanor was less fond of. A burning frustration surged through her, and she placed her knife down forcefully.

"What have you to lose in believing that I speak the truth?" She glanced at Théoden, hoping to gauge the king's reaction. "I am completely certain about it; Aragorn _will_ win this whole thing, and it's not hopeless and stuff like you're saying," she cried, slipping out of her Middle Earth-speak and into her old modernisms in the stress of the moment. She bit her tongue.

Théoden was nodding thoughtfully, though Éomer was still studying her with sharp suspicion. Possibly admitting to having foresight wasn't her greatest moment; it certainly hadn't appeased Éomer any.

 _They probably think I'm some kind of Elvish witch; Éowyn at least seems to have gotten past that, but with Éomer watching me like a fox in a henhouse… if Théoden…_

The king was still silent, frowning into his snowy beard. At length his blue eyes met Elanor's, and he gave a small smile. He had just opened his mouth to speak when a noise was heard from outside; a man's voice cried the name of Théoden, and the challenge of the guard.

A moment later, the captain of the Guard thrust aside the curtain.

"A man is here, lord," he said, "an errand-rider of Gondor. He wishes to come before you at once."

"Let him come!" said Théoden.

* * *

The night was darker than pitch, heavy clouds blotting out even the stars. Glorfindel frowned deeply as peered ahead, rolling easily with Asfaloth's smooth gait.

The physical darkness through which the Grey Company rode did not trouble him, for the night held no terrors for him. Rather, the chill within his heart caused his brow to furrow and the nape of his neck to prickle peculiarly.

Ahead, he could see the dark forms of Aragorn and Halbarad, leading the group onwards. To his right rode Elladan and Elrohir, the elder twin identifiable by the snowy colour of his mount, and to his left Legolas. Behind thundered the rest of the Dúnedain, faces drawn with weariness and fear.

 _And little wonder!_

Mountains loomed over the party on both sides, like great accusing sentinels that stretched upwards unseen. The road they travelled upon was smooth and relatively easy, passing through the realm of Gondor to the south of Ered Nimrais. Ahead were rolling grasslands, the realms of Lebinnin and Losarnach rushing to greet the Anduin south of Osgiliath.

As great as Glorfindel's endurance was, he had begun to feel worn. He harboured great admiration for Aragorn, subduing his flesh beneath the weight of duty. The child Glorfindel had been fond of years ago was swallowed up in the man he saw now. A great man, certainly, but stern and weathered. Somehow, the son of Arathorn journeyed on, denying need for nourishment or sleep. Glorfindel, for his part, could rest reasonably well in the saddle, allowing his thoughts to stray in rhapsodical memories.

Tonight, however, he was denied even that pleasure.

He had walked the Hall of Mandos once, caught by the haunting melodies and the faces of those gone before him. To depart Námo's realm was an experience granted to few of the Noldor, least of all those whom had followed Fingolfin to Beleriand.

Glorfindel's mouth quirked wryly at that. Mandos was reputed for his long memory. Were it not for The Lady of Mercy, Glorfindel knew assuredly that he would dwell in the Halls yet.

 _Fortunate indeed, then, that Nienna spoke on your behalf! And fortunate that Manwë saw fit that you return, for the Ñoldor are scarce granted such leniency!_

He shook his head, refocusing on the dim road ahead. One brush with death had been sufficient for the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower; still, the road over which the Grey Company had passed sent a trickle of fear down his spine. The grey memories of his old life and final moments were repainted in garish detail before his eyes as they had passed beneath the shadow of the mountain. His stomach roiled as he recalled it.

The very fact that the Dead discomfited him so much filled Glorfindel with a measure of disgust and self-loathing. The Eldar had little to fear from those gone before them, though to pass the ghosts of men was certainly an unpleasant experience. And yet, neither Legolas nor Elrond's sons had quaked before the Stone of Erech. Even the Dúnedain had swallowed their fear, for the love of their captain was sufficient that they should proceed—even Halbarad, who foresaw his death beyond.

 _As Elanor predicted…_

Glorfindel shook himself. He could vividly recall the icy fingers which tore at his heart, scrabbling feverishly at his inmost being. All the while their haunting voices raised in song;

 _Come… come back… join us… the path is easy…_

"Aulë, aní athya," he muttered, scattering the morbid thoughts. The road was yet long, and he had need of his strength.

 _'Tis great wonder that Elanor endured the journey southwards, though I suppose I should cease to be surprised at her_ , he thought, and the recollection brought a strained smile to his face. _She has grown courteous in speech; did I not know her origins, I would believe her to be native-born, so much has she improved… in every aspect…_

He frowned again, though the light creases between his eyebrows were lesser than his earlier furrows. He would follow Aragorn as long as was required, for he had pledged himself to the cause. Not only that, he knew—thanks to Elanor once more—that the Ranger would claim the throne of Gondor, and Glorfindel felt the will of Manwë pressing him to further that cause.

Nevertheless, he would be glad when all was over.

 _Too many hasty goodbyes_ , he concluded, attempting to reassure his already-ruffled _feä_. _That is all. It is of little import. I am here by the will and grace of the Valar. Is that not enough?_

He paused, long fingers burrowed in Asfaloth's snow-white mane. Half-fearfully, he sent his thoughts skyward, like a tentative child asking a question.

 _Ought I to ask more than that?_

No response.

No, he would not, for to do so would be to test the patience of those who had graciously given him a second chance. Before he could push the matter from his mind, however, he was struck by a lingering recollection.

 _"You are like a brother to me as well."_

The memory caused him to grit his teeth, for it tasted of soured mead and made swallowing difficult. Scolding himself for allowing his thoughts to stray, Glorfindel readjusted his hands on Asfaloth's reins.

"I will conquer this," he muttered, voice low. So intently did he stare out at the road ahead, that he missed seeing Legolas turn to survey him for a moment. A soft and knowing smile tugged at the Silvan Elf's lips, and Glorfindel would have objected hotly had he voiced his thoughts. As it were, Legolas was left to muse upon it at his leisure, free from the Elf Lord's protestations.

* * *

 _ **TRANSLATIONS & NOTES**_

 _ **There's some Silmarillion stuff in this chapter, so if you're unfamiliar with the books (or just haven't read them in a long time—sometimes it's easy to get mixed up) I have included a list of names and other titles for the ones mentioned in this chapter.**_

 _ **Mandos - the doorman and Judger of the Dead. Those Elves who die pass to his halls. He, his brother Lórien and sister Nienna are known as the Masters of Spirits. Wiki him for more details, or reread Silm.**_

 _ **Námo - another name for Mandos**_

 _ **Nienna - Mandos' sister, known as She Who Weeps. Responsible for mercy and grief. According to some sources, Gandalf the Maia was one of her apprentices, and she taught him compassion/pity.**_

 _ **Lady of Mercy - a title given to Nienna**_

 _ **Manwë - Lord of the Valar, and the lord of winds and air. Greatest of the Valar.**_

 _ **Asfaloth - Glorfindel's fabulous light grey horse, as mentioned in The Lord of the Rings books. I hadn't mentioned his name yet so I thought I'd just clarify.**_

 _ **Aulë - the Smith and lord of all the substances of the earth. He was known as a great craftsman and taught the Noldor in Valinor many things.**_

 _ **aní athya - "aid me" (lit. "help/comfort/assist me" in Quenya)**_

 _ **The Firienfeld - the meadow at the top of Dunharrow, where the king and his retinue camped.**_

* * *

 _A/N on Glorfindel - I personally accept the head-canon that Glorfindel in Rings is the same Glorfindel from Gondolin, who was sent back by the Valar to do work in Middle Earth. I have mentioned this before in an earlier chapter (where Elanor brings up the other Glorfindel she found reference to) and thought I'd just bring it up again in case you hadn't read it for a while. It is speculated that Glorfindel came back with the two Blue Wizards, and I like that idea. I believe Glorfindel arrived in the Havens and then travelled to aid Elrond in the War of the Ring, making a home in Imladris and—in this fic—joining the Fellowship. He is one of my favourite Silm/Rings characters and I have worked to make his character consistent, rather playful, and noble as I always imagined._

* * *

 **There's Chapter 26. I guess there's not much here I can say that I haven't said in previous chapters; except I do love reviews, and I am so excited that you've stuck it out this far! Enjoy :)**


	27. Armed

**Chapter 27 - Armed**

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: I was recently rereading parts of Tolkien's work pertaining to languages, and I thought I should clarify a few things. It was brought to my attention that the Hobbits speak a form of Westron or the Common Speech, but that there are various differences between the Westron spoken by the men of Gondor and that of the Shire. This explains the different "sound" that the hobbits have when speaking, compared to the more formal tongue of say, Boromir, or Aragorn. Then there is the Rohirric tongue and, of course, the various Elvish dialects. However, I make no pretence at being a linguist (as much as I wish I was) and so if there are inconsistencies in the way my characters speak, I apologise. I decided that I would just look upon Westron as English and disregard the smaller dialects. In the Appendices, Tolkien talks about how a lot of the Shire names (such as Brandybuck, Took, Brandywine, etc.) are peculiar combinations of English words because they are translated out of Westron. The complexity of Tolkien's universe never ceases to baffle me, especially when considering how much effort he put into the languages of his world.**

 **In short, I have simplified/disregarded the complicated language histories and varied dialects because I am unable to properly explain them and place them into my fanfic. It's never going to be a perfect replica of Tolkien (because… well… he's Tolkien) but I thought I'd clarify this and explain my simplification of the linguistics of the books. Big thank you to TMI Fairy for pointing me to Tolkien's writing on these sources; always nice to have another read of the Appendices!**

* * *

A tall man entered Théoden's pavilion, and Elanor stifled a gasp; for a moment it seemed to her that Boromir stood before her. Then she saw that it was not the case; the man was a stranger, though as like to Boromir as if he were one of his kin, tall and grey-eyed and proud. He was clad as a rider with a cloak of dark green over a coat of fine mail; on the front of his helm was wrought a small silver star. In his hand he bore a single arrow, black-feathered and barbed with steel, but the point was painted red.

He sank on one knee and presented the arrow to Théoden.

"Hail, Lord of the Rohirrim, friend of Gondor!" he said. "Hirgon I am, errand-rider of Denethor, who bring you this token of war. Gondor is in great need. Often the Rohirrim have aided us, but now the Lord Denethor asks for all your strength and all your speed, lest Gondor fall at last."

"The Red Arrow!" said Théoden, holding it, as one who receives a summons long expected and yet dreadful when it comes. His hand trembled. "The Red Arrow has not been seen in the Mark in all my years! Has it indeed come to that? And what does the Lord Denethor reckon that all my strength and all my speed may be?"

"That is best known to yourself, lord," said Hirgon. "But ere long it may well come to pass that Minas Tirith is surrounded, and unless you have the strength to break a siege of many powers, the Lord Denethor bids me say that he judges that the strong arms of the Rohirrim would be better

within his walls than without."

'But he knows that we are a people who fight rather upon horseback and in the open, and that we are also a scattered people and time is needed for the gathering of our Riders. Is it not true, Hirgon, that the Lord of Minas Tirith knows more than he sets in his message? For we are already at war, as you may have seen, and you do not find us all unprepared. Gandalf the Grey has been among us, and even now we are mustering for battle in the East."

"What the Lord Denethor may know or guess of all these things I cannot say," answered Hirgon. "But indeed our case is desperate. My lord does not issue any command to you, he begs you only to remember old friendship and oaths long spoken, and for your own good to do all that you may. It is reported to us that many kings have ridden in from the East to the service of Mordor. From the North to the field of Dagorlad there is skirmish and rumour of war. In the South the Haradrim are moving, and fear has fallen on all our coastlands, so that little help will come to us thence. Make

haste! For it is before the walls of Minas Tirith that the doom of our time will be decided, and if the tide be not stemmed there, then it will flow over all the fair fields of Rohan, and even in this Hold among the hills there shall be no refuge."

"Dark tidings," said Théoden, "yet not all unguessed. But say to Denethor that even if Rohan itself felt no peril, still we would come to his aid. But we have suffered much loss in our battles with Saruman the traitor, and we must still think of our frontier to the north and east, as his own tidings make clear. So great a power as the Dark Lord seems now to wield might well contain us in battle before the City and yet strike with great force across the River away beyond the Gate of Kings.

"But we will speak no longer counsels of prudence. We will come. The weapon take was set for the morrow. When all is ordered we will set out. Ten thousand spears I might have sent riding over the plain to the dismay of your foes. It will be less now, I fear; for I will not leave my strongholds all unguarded. Yet six thousands at the least shall ride behind me. For say to Denethor that in this hour the King of the Mark himself will come down to the land of Gondor, though maybe he will not ride back. But it is a long road, and man and beast must reach the end with strength to fight. A week it may be from tomorrow's morn ere you hear the cry of the Sons of Eorl coming from the North."

"A week!" cried Hirgon, eyes widening. "If it must be so, it must. But you are like to find only ruined walls in seven days from now, unless other help unlooked-for comes. Still, you may at the least disturb the Orcs and Swarthy Men from their feasting in the White Tower."

"At the least we will do that," said Théoden, and when Hirgon spoke of help unlooked-for his eyes flickered to Elanor for a brief second. "But I myself am new-come from battle and long journey, and I will now go to rest. Tarry here this night. Then you shall look on the muster of Rohan and ride away the gladder for the sight, and the swifter for the rest. In the morning counsels are best, and night changes many thoughts."

With that the king stood up, and they all rose, for it was early evening by this time. "Go now each to your rest," he said, "and sleep well. And you, Master Meriadoc, I need no more tonight. But be ready to my call as soon as the Sun is risen."

"I will be ready," said Merry, "even if you bid me ride with you on the Paths of the Dead."

Elanor attempted to suppress a smile; the tiny hobbit's earnestness before the mighty Théoden was so childlike and trusting.

"Speak not words of omen!" said the king, though his voice was kind. "For there may be more roads than one that could bear that name. But I did not say that I would bid you ride with me on any road. Good night!"

With a low bow, Merry exited the pavilion, muttering something under his breath which sounded distinctly like, "I won't be left behind, I won't be left, I won't."

Then Théoden turned to those who remained, and his face was grim and lined. "There is much yet to be done. Éomer, Dúnhere; if you will attend me. Éowyn, sister-daughter, and Elanor of Rivendell, I bid you to seek rest also. Much needs to be done ere the rising of the sun this coming morn, and you have done much already."

Elanor glanced at Éowyn, who's grey eyes sparked with indignation. However, she merely set her chin and gave a curt nod.

Éomer touched his sister's arm then, before departing the tent after Théoden and Dúnhere. Éowyn stood in place for a moment, her fists clenched into tight balls. Elanor sighed wearily, capturing her attention. Éowyn stared at her for a moment, hurt and frustration written on every feature. Realising how little time Elanor had left before the Rohirrim left for war, she moved towards the other woman.

"What say you now, Elanor?" Éowyn said bitterly, turning away from the gentle touch and flinging the hangings aside as they left the pavilion behind and passed out into the cool evening air. "You speak of hope, and yet I see none. My uncle and brother ride to war, and I know well what they shall say; forbidden to depart, and charged with the defence of our lands and people!" Her voice rose in a steady crescendo, and she spat the final words as if they tasted of poison.

Elanor took a deep breath, striding quickly to keep pace with the energetic princess. As Éowyn approached the edge of the Firienfeld, she fell slowly to her knees and began to weep. Her lithe, slender body shook with sobs as her hands dug into the turf.

Lowering herself to the ground, Elanor pulled her knees up and leaned back on her hands. Éowyn continued to cry, and for a long time they sat upon the cold grass. Darkness shrouded the valley of Harrowdale below, and for once the sky was utterly dark. Elanor had grown up in the country, and been accustomed to seeing the stars. Still, the sky above Arda had made her breath catch in her throat the first time she had seen it. In the absence of light pollution, the inky blackness was scattered with a plethora of glittering orbs.

 _And tonight, everything is dark_ , she sighed, wrapping her arms around her knees. _War is brewing… wait, hang on, could this be the darkness of Mordor?_ She glanced up at the fathomless void above. If she remembered correctly, the following morning was the "Dawnless Day"; there was every likelihood that the dark clouds had already blotted out the stars above.

After a few minutes, Éowyn took a shuddering breath. In the dim light, Elanor saw her look upwards, her elegant profile damp with glistening tears. She then turned towards Elanor, forcing a watery smile.

"The night is dark, Elanor."

"You know, there was a historian and theologian in my homeland who said 'the darkest hour is just before the dawn'. There is more truth in that statement than one might expect."

"You speak with such assurance, and yet I cannot find it in my heart to believe."

 _And I'm doing a better job of convincing you than myself! Goodness…_

 _Perhaps it is time to… hint…_

Elanor chewed her lip. There was a certain risk in bringing it up, but…

"What will you do, Éowyn?"

"I?"

"Yes. When the men ride out, what will you do?"

Éowyn laughed then, and reached up with one hand to brush the traces of tears from her face.

"Would you like me to speak plainly?"

"Of course," Elanor smiled, feeling as if this was heading in a more hopeful direction.

Éowyn's eyes glinted slightly in the darkness as she turned to face her. "I shall ride."

"I expected as much."

"Indeed?" she replied, looking a little surprised. "You are shrewd and clever, Elanor. And yet I fear I have belied myself! Pray tell, how did you know of my intentions?"

 _Digging yourself a hole again, Elanor Ravenscroft…_

Instead, she shrugged. "I am a woman too. I can understand something of how you feel; seeing my own friends and family riding off to battle is hardly—pleasant. As little as I desire to see war… it makes me… I know why you might wish to ride. From what I understand, you have seen much sorrow already, in tending your uncle. My journey has not been half so hard, for I have encountered a great deal of kindness and been extremely fortunate. As it is… I understand how it is to have those that you love risking their lives when you are forced to remain behind." _And as much as I want to, I can't tell you not to love Aragorn right now. You'll figure that one out on your own._

"You know not how comforting it is to hear such words," Éowyn half laughed. "I thank you, Elanor, from the depths of my heart. I take it, then, that you shall not hinder me?"

"Of course not!" _And risk the Witch-king surviving? No thanks!_

"And will you ride with me?"

 _Woah there Nelly! Come again?!_

"To war?" Elanor's mouth felt drier than cotton wool.

"For glory and renown!" cried Éowyn, seeming more animated than ever. She reached over and clutched Elanor's arm, her voice full of desperate hope. Drawn from the depths of woe, she now seemed like a caricature of herself; painfully eager, and with a half-hearted and forced grin. "Have you had aught training?"

"Éowyn, I cannot!" She shifted upon the grass until she was a facing the Rohirric woman squarely. "You are a shield-maiden, born a daughter of kings with pride and strength. I am… I am a diplomat—of sorts—one who had not wielded a sword until the last half-year! And as I have previously said, my foster-brothers took wagers upon the transience of my survival in an encounter with orcs. I should never survive the battle."

"You should be by my side," Éowyn twinkled.

"No," replied Elanor, emphatically. Then she smiled. "I do believe there is one other whom you might take, however…"

* * *

The following morning never came.

Elanor was woken by Éowyn's soft voice from outside her tent. Blinking sleepily, she called for the other woman to come in.

"Théoden King speaks with the errand rider of Gondor," she said, and as Elanor forced her brain to wakefulness she noted that the other woman was clad in a mail hauberk and cloak on top of her usual attire.

"What time is it?"

"Dawn hath come, and yet the sun does not."

 _The Dawnless Day indeed…_

Climbing from the comfort of her furs, Elanor moved to where her outer tunic was draped over a chair. She had slept clad in breeches and shirt. She pulled the blue garment over head, fastening the ties at the collar. Éowyn watched impatiently as Elanor knotted the leather belt about her waist and tugged on her boots, before reaching for the cloak she had carried since Rivendell; a soft article of deep blue, almost black, with a silver fastening at the collar. It breathed of Elrond, and Elanor took a deep breath of cold air to harry away thoughts of comfortable Rivendell.

"Hasten, Elanor, for there is much to be done."

Elanor gave a small smile, following her friend out of the tent with her cloak swathed around her.

As they approached a gathering of tall men, she spied Merry standing in their midst. Many folk were standing, looking up and muttering; all their faces were grey and sad, and some were afraid. With a sinking heart she followed Éowyn towards the king. Hirgon the rider of Gondor was there, and beside him stood now another man, like him and dressed alike, but shorter and broader. Éomer was also present. As the two women approached, they heard Hirgon speaking to the king.

"It comes from Mordor, lord," he said. "It began last night at sunset. From the hills in the Eastfold of your realm I saw it rise and creep across the sky, and all night as I rode it came behind eating up the stars. Now the great cloud hangs over all the land between here and the Mountains of Shadow; and it is deepening. War has already begun."

For a while the king sat silent. At last he spoke. "So we come to it in the end," he said: "the great battle of our time, in which many things shall pass away. But at least there is no longer need for hiding. We will ride the straight way and the open road and with all our speed. The muster shall begin at once, and wait for none that tarry. Have you good store in Minas Tirith? For if we must ride now in all haste, then we must ride light, with but meal and water enough to last us into battle."

"We have very great store long prepared," answered Hirgon. "Ride now as light and as swift as you may!"

'Then call the heralds, Éomer," said Théoden. "Let the Riders be marshalled!"

Éomer departed then, and presently the trumpets rang in the Hold and were answered by many others from below. Dull they seemed and harsh in the heavy air, braying ominously. To Elanor, they proclaimed the coming doom and death.

The king turned to Merry, and Elanor watched nervously. "I am going to war, Master Meriadoc," he said. "In a little while I shall take the road. I release you from my service, but not from my friendship. You shall abide here, and if you will, you shall serve the Lady Éowyn, who will govern the folk in my stead."

"But—but—lord," Merry stammered, "I offered you my sword. I do not want to be parted from you like this, Théoden King. And as all my friends have gone to the battle, I should be ashamed to stay behind."

"But we ride on horses tall and swift," said Théoden; "and great though your heart be, you cannot ride on such beasts."

"Then tie me on to the back of one, or let me hang on a stirrup, or something," cried Merry. "It is a long way to run; but run I shall, if I cannot ride, even if I wear my feet off and arrive weeks too late."

Théoden smiled. "Rather than that I would bear you with me on Snowmane," he said. "But at the least you shall ride with me to Edoras and look on Meduseld; for that way I shall go. So far Stybba can bear you: the great race will not begin till we reach the plains."

Elanor gave Éowyn the faintest of nudges then, and the latter stepped forward. "Come now, Meriadoc!" she said. "I will show you the gear that I have prepared for you."

The hobbit nodded resignedly, and followed the two women away from the others. Elanor fell in on Merry's other side.

"This request only did Aragorn make to me," said Éowyn, as they passed among the tents, "that you should be armed for battle. I have granted it, as I could. For my heart tells me that you will need such gear ere the end."

Now she led the pair to a booth among the lodges of the king's guard; and there an armourer brought out to her a small helm, and a round shield, and other gear.

"No mail we have to fit you," she admitted, "nor any time for the forging of such a hauberk. But here is also a stout jerkin of leather, a belt, and a knife. A sword you have."

Merry bowed, and the lady showed him the shield. It bore the device of a white horse.

"Take these things with you," Éowyn said, "and bear them to good fortune! Farewell now, Master Meriadoc! Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I." She exchanged a knowing look with Elanor.

Merry turned to her then, his eyes wide. "I shall see you again, before everyone leaves, shan't I Lady Elanor?"

Elanor nodded and tried to look reassuring. "Certainly."

Still seeming reluctant, the hobbit gathered that which had been given to him and departed. At this moment, Éowyn turned to Elanor, keeping her voice low.

"And this promise I made to myself; that I should see you also well-equipped, for if you are to remain behind at Edoras I should not wish to leave you defenceless. You shall be well cared for; I shall speak of you to the keeper of my uncle's house, and he shall give you honour as befits you. As for gear…" She turned, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and the armourer brought forth a second pile of equipment.

Elanor gaped as Éowyn held up various pieces of equipment, including a slim mail hauberk like the one she wore herself.

"Éowyn… I cannot wear this!" she gasped, holding the chain mail and marvelling at it's weight.

"You shall bear it well, for you ride upon Fundanár, and I believe he is more than capable of carrying it." She reached amongst the armour and pulled out a sword. "I know that you speak poorly of your skill with a blade, and yet no other weapon that you are capable of wielding could be found. As it is, this sword is sharp and not unwieldy; may it serve you well."

Elanor surveyed the collection in amazement. It had not occurred to her to seek out any form of equipment. She had never desired any form of armour; even Elrond had agreed that she needed no extra hindrance, for she had her knife, and…

With a smile, Elanor waved the sword away. "These things I will take, but the sword I need not."

"How will you defend yourself?" Éowyn frowned.

"I already have a sword."

* * *

Elanor looked down at the scabbard of her Elvish blade, resting upon her knees. It was as light and deadly as she recalled, the scabbard tipped with silver and the hilt elegant without being fussy. The grip melded into her hand, and as she glanced to the other gear Éowyn had provided, the Rohirric armour seemed almost cheap and poorly formed in comparison.

She sighed heavily and placed the sword down upon her camp bed.

All about her tent, she could hear the Rohirrim preparing to ride. Many voices were veined with alarm and discomfort at the growing darkness, something Elanor felt fairly well able to ignore. It was disconcerting without the sun, but it would pass.

 _If all goes well._

 _And why shouldn't it?! Everything is on track. Aragorn rides to the Corsair ships, Éowyn is going off to kill the Witch-king with Merry in tow, and Sam and Gimli have… Gimli… well… oh Eru, let all of that be alright!_

 _What will you do now? Wait patiently at Edoras until the peace comes?_

 _No… perhaps I shall ride out once I know the battle is over, so that I can be at Minas Tirith whilst Éowyn is recovering… that would be nice… to see her and Faramir interacting… Boromir will be there too, I suppose. Wait, no, he'll be leading the armies to the Black Gate with Aragorn—if he survives. And I wonder if Denethor…_

 _"Everything is on track" indeed! There's about ten billion things that could go wrong! It's all very well to hope for the best, and to tell that to Éowyn, but goodness woman, you'd better start praying that Eru didn't just send you here to get picked off by orcs!_

Elanor covered her face with her hands, willing her thoughts to quiet so she could concentrate. She hated to think what might go wrong were her presence in Middle Earth to distort the chain of events at this crucial time. Were her coming, Frodo's death and subsequent Fellowship changes to throw the world into disarray, she did not know what she would do. Even staying in Edoras would not be safe then.

 _What would Georgia do?_

The unexpected thought startled her.

Her quick, resourceful sister would undoubtedly have had things worked out by this stage. Furthermore, she would be genuinely _useful_ were she faced with a dangerous situation.

 _All I have done is put Glorfindel in danger by having him save Boromir, stuff the Fellowship over, and encourage Éowyn in her pursuit of glory. How noble._

A tear escaped then, surging down her cheek. Biting her lip viciously, she waited until the threat of threat of emotion had passed. Still, she could not help wishing that Glorfindel or her foster-brothers—or better yet, Elrond—were present to advise her. All she had was the echoing silence of her own consciousness.

 _Georgia wouldn't play it safe._

That was true enough, and her lip curled wryly at the thought. Georgia had a high sense of loyalty and bravery—much like Éowyn—and this, coupled with a complete lack of self preservation, would have seen her joining the reckless shield-maiden on the Pelennor Fields.

But no, she couldn't. She was poorly equipped, basically hopeless with a blade, and full of paralysing fear. Medicine here was virtually non-existent. If she were to get injured…

 _I'd better hope Aragorn is wandering around with some athelas!_

Of course she would not ride. She had never worn mail before, she had no idea what it was like. Besides, she couldn't kill anything! The closest she'd ever come to killing was crushing huntsmen spiders when they ventured within 5km of her house.

And Fundanár needed rest, naturally. Even the Elf horses couldn't run forever! She would allow him to recuperate in Edoras. Yes, that was wise.

Not to mention she would only hinder Éowyn in killing the Witch-king. It was imperative that that should be successful. What if she fell and the other woman got distracted from her efforts to save Théoden?

Ridiculous…

Elanor stood up.

 _No harm in donning this stuff anyway,_ she justified. She tugged a padded leather jerkin like the one Merry had been given over her own tunic, before adding the mail. It lay upon her cot, and she slipped her arms through it's icy folds. Leaning down, she worked her head through the neck hole. When that was done, she stood up, and the mail thumped viciously upon her body, almost beating her to her knees. It was frighteningly heavy, dragging upon her shoulders like she carried twice her usual weight. A thick sword-belt went over the top, as did bracers on her forearms.

Disregarding the helm, she fastened her Elvish blade to her left hip. She hefted the round shield onto her left arm, marvelling at it's weight. Metal rasped on metal as she drew her sword, thankful that the weapon of Rivendell was so light. The rest of her body felt fatigued already under the mass of the hauberk.

Taking up the stance Legolas had taught her, Elanor practiced a few experimental moves. It was vastly different to sparring in a tunic and breeches, but Middle Earth was a hard school. Her muscles had become taut; she was stronger than she had ever been in her life.

 _Still, you wouldn't have much stamina…_

But that was of little import. She was going to Edoras, until she could convince someone else to ride with her to Minas Tirith after the battle had concluded. Yes, Edoras…

Hoping that she didn't look utterly ridiculous, Elanor sheathed her weapon and left the shield leaning against her cot. With a deep breath, she departed the tent, eyes seeking the slightly-longer hair of Éowyn amidst the sea of blondes.

It did not take her long to catch sight of the Lady of Rohan. Éowyn raised an eyebrow when she saw Elanor approach—walking slowly, for her part, as the mail weighed her down considerably. Éowyn tactfully moved several paces away from where several Rohirric lords were conversing, her appraising eye roving up and down Elanor's armour-clad form.

"Do I look foolish?"

Éowyn shook her head seriously. "No indeed. You should pass for a woman of Rohan, as I have said before."

"Good." Elanor shifted uneasily, wishing she hadn't put on the armour. "What now, Éowyn?"

"I am to remain in Dunharrow," the woman replied, a hint of scorn in her voice. "Though this command I shall not heed. Meriadoc goes with my uncle, and I think it best if you accompany him openly, under guise of travelling together. For my part…" She hesitated, fair brow wrinkled in contemplation. "I shall contrive something." Touching Elanor on the shoulder, she gave a faint hint of a smile. "Remain with the halfling."

* * *

There on the wide flats beside the noisy river were marshalled in many companies well nigh five and fifty hundreds of Riders fully armed, and many hundreds of other men with spare horses lightly burdened. A single trumpet sounded.

The king raised his hand, and then silently the host of the Mark began to move. Foremost went twelve of the king's household-men, Riders of renown. Then the king followed with Éomer on his right. He had said farewell to Éowyn above in the Hold, and the memory was grievous; but now he turned his mind to the road that lay ahead.

Behind him Merry with Elanor and the errand riders of Gondor, and behind them again twelve more of the king's household. They passed down the long ranks of waiting men with stern and unmoved faces. But when they had come almost to the end of the line one looked up glancing keenly at the hobbit. A young man, Merry thought as he returned the glance, less in height and girth than most. He caught the glint of clear grey eyes; and he watched as the young soldier rode out of sight, for his face was lit with fiercest determination and fire that caused those about him to pale in comparison.

On down the grey road they went beside the Snowbourn rushing on its stones; through the hamlets of Underharrow and Upbourn, where many sad faces of women looked out from dark doors; and so without horn or harp or music of men's voices the great ride into the East began with which the songs of Rohan were busy for many long lives of men thereafter.

 _From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning  
with thane and captain rode Thengel's son:  
_ _to Edoras he came, the ancient halls  
_ _of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;  
_ _golden timbers were in gloom mantled.  
_ _Farewell he bade to his free people,  
_ _hearth and high-seat, and the hallowed places,  
_ _where long he had feasted ere the light faded.  
_ _Forth rode the king, fear behind him,  
_ _fate before him. Fealty kept he;  
_ _oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.  
_ _Forth rode The´oden. Five nights and days  
_ _east and onward rode the Eorlingas  
_ _through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood,  
_ _six thousand spears to Sunlending,  
_ _Mundburg the mighty under Mindolluin,  
_ _Sea-kings' city in the South-kingdom  
_ _foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.  
_ _Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,  
_ _horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar  
_ _sank into silence: so the songs tell us._

* * *

Elanor nibbled apprehensively on her bottom lip. Ahead, on a tiny pony by the name of Stybba rode Merry, looking severely deflated. She had watched as he noticed Éowyn, noting his open admiration at sight of the disguised shieldmaiden. Elanor also found her eyes resting upon the figure of Dernhelm, for in place of hopeless determination "he" wore burning courage and valour.

 _Think that won't change anything?_

 _…hopefully nothing important…_

Desperately praying that Éowyn's brightened outlook wouldn't result in someone's untimely death, Elanor gripped firmly to Fundanár's saddle. According to her last-minute perusal of _Rings_ , they should arrive at Edoras at noon.

 _And then?_

 _…well… I'm staying!_

She gave a deep, disgruntled sigh. The prospect of fate tossing her in harm's way was entirely distasteful, and altogether likely. Thus far she had escaped quite well; the ride south had been uncomfortable but manageable. A battle was entirely another matter.

 _If you don't, you'll be left on the outskirts of the whole thing!_

 _I can't believe I'm even_ _considering_ _that… I don't want to fight! Heck, I can't fight! And I have loved ones, back home. What happens if you die in Middle Earth, huh? What would happen to my family?_

Her fingers bit into her palms as the thoughts faded to silence. It had been many months since she had come to Middle Earth, and a great deal had changed. Likelihood was, she would never see her real family again; she had not ever become fully resigned to the fact, but the odds were against her. That had led her to a begrudging acceptance of Middle Earth and its inhabitants as her home. And yet…

 _You won't commit yourself to this world..?_

 _No,_ she smiled ruefully. _It's not my…_

 _It's not your cause?_

 _No…_

 _But isn't it? Isn't it really? You've already put yourself in harm's way; at least, you've done the hardest part. You've left your cushy safety net, and you're one step from biting the bullet and doing your bit._

Elanor rolled her eyes skyward, taking in the clinging darkness which shrouded the pale blue somewhere above. The cloud was not like a regular storm cloud, but something which reeked of evil and malice.

 _Do you think Merry looks at that cloud and_ _wants_ _to go to battle? Do you think he goes toward war expecting to come out the authorised unscathed? No! Merry goes because he wants to do some, small thing for the cause. For the Shire. For his home._

Half-smiling, Elanor steadied Fundanár with her hands as they passed down a slope.

 _How on earth did I… this is… how… goodness, how did I manage to convince myself that…_

 _Think of Merry._

Elrond would be speechless, Elladan and Elrohir horrified, and Glorfindel positively irate, but she would go. She'd been magically transported to a book universe, rescued by Boromir, adopted by Elrond, travelled with the Grey Company, and befriended Éowyn. She had long passed from the logical to the impossible.

 _May as well throw my lot in with the others!_

It was as if her body was filled with reckless joy, a flooding sensation which poured from the top of her scull to her boot-clad toes. She laughed inwardly, a rash and maniacal cackle which added to her buzz. Something inside her rent it's chains, bounding forth with fevered eagerness. It had taken a change in dimension, leaving Earth behind for a completely new universe, to crack Elanor's defences; no longer a bastion of implacable logic and common sense.

And, as reluctantly as she confessed it, being irrational felt good.

Something deep within her chuckled at this.

 _Now you know how Georgia feels!_

* * *

 **Ok, chapter 27 is there!**

 **I am sorry it's taken so long to update. I've just gotten back to university after a break, and luckily I've only got 6 weeks until I'm on holidays for the summer then anyway (Australia = December summer. Just clarifying haha).**

 **I feel as if this is quite disjointed, and I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. Feel free to offer comment via review or PM if you like. There are definitely some imperfections and I'd appreciate any suggestions you might have.** **As much as I know it diverts from the "realistic" element, I had to let Elanor ride forth. It's necessary for the forwarding of the plot. If I leave her in Edoras, you're going to end up with a very boring fanfiction. In this case, I've decided to sacrifice realism for the sake of enjoyment and adventure.**

 **Comments on Elanor's thought processes are particularly welcome. I struggled to make it coherent, relevant... She's got so much going on right now (loss of home, loss of new ME family, loss of new friends, apprehension about the future, being stuck between worlds, etc.) and it's hard to capture all of this in one person. It's hard to write all of that, whilst keeping the plot moving and stuff. I really hope it's believable and not irksome to read!**

 **Thanks so much ya'll!**

 **Finwe :)**


	28. Forth, Eolingas!

**Chapter 28 - "Forth, Eolingas!"**

* * *

Edoras caused Elanor's heart to thump queerly in her chest.

The city graced a hilltop, encircled by medieval buildings and stables, and at the outskirts a sturdy wall. Many horses were housed therein, and great banners fluttered in the gusty breeze. No sun shone upon the land, however, and the Golden Hall did not gleam in the noon light. All was dark. The city seemed as a young and vigorous man, graced with strength and honour which had been tainted by poison, falling under a grievous shadow. Seeing Rohan overhung by the gloom of Sauron made Elanor's blood sear through her veins; the men who rode about her appeared sombre and discomfited. The entire scene seemed a dreadful loss of valour and joy.

Still, Meduseld was an impressive sight to behold as she followed Théoden's contingent through the gates of the city and up through the sloping streets. Merry still rode in front of her, looking increasingly downcast. Stealing a glance behind, Elanor caught the eye of Éowyn, who had somehow contrived to ride at the rear of the small guard entering Edoras—the rest of the army remained milling on the plains outside.

 _And at least, if all goes well, these people will know light and happiness once more._

"There are some three-score riders who shall join us," Théoden intoned, drawing Snowmane to a halt in a square near his halls and dismounting. "We have but a short while; refresh yourselves, and then we ride."

As the other officers quickly dispersed on various errands, the king caught sight of Elanor and her halfling companion.

"Lady Elanor," he called. Anxious lest Théoden discover that Éowyn had not remained behind in Dunharrow, she led Fundanár towards the man.

"Yes, King Théoden?"

"I entrust you to those who remain of my household, and I hope that in doing so I have not earned the displeasure of your kin," he intoned, his snowy beard shifting in the breeze. "With you shall remain my esquire, Master Meriadoc; war is no place for a halfling, and I believe that you might find some comfort in one another." He glanced briefly over her shoulder to where Merry stood, half-heartedly stroking Stybba's nose.

"Aye," Elanor nodded, not trusting herself to say anything more lest she be forced to lie or reveal the truth.

The king nodded. "May you fare well, Elanor of Rivendell; I hope that we may meet again."

Elanor felt her chest tighten, her mail-clad body further weighed down by the knowledge that the noble man before her would soon meet his death.

 _And I don't think I can save you like I did Boromir… not without something going horribly wrong…_

"You have been kind to me, my lord. I pray that you and your men shall see great victory."

Théoden smiled sadly at this, before nodding once more. Something in his blue eyes bespoke his hopelessness, as if he knew he rode to his death—and went anyway. Moving with grace which belied his age, the king returned to his nephew's side and the group of men departed for the Golden Hall.

Elanor sighed heavily as she turned Fundanár towards where Merry stood. Death was coming, and a lot of it—yet Théoden's courage in the face of grim circumstances lent Elanor strength. She would seek to match the bravery of the Rohirrim.

The young figure of Dernhelm was loitering not far from Merry, keeping his gaze down and avoiding conversation with the other soldiers. Putting aside the melancholy feelings, Elanor set her mind to practicality—something she was immensely good at. Moving briskly, she approached the hobbit with a gentle smile.

"Merry," she said. "Would you take charge of Fundanár for a moment? I wish to ask a question of one of the soldiers."

The hobbit eyed the enormous gelding slightly askance, but nodded. "Of course, Lady Elanor. He's frightfully big though, isn't he?"

"Very, but as gentle as a lamb. He shall stand quietly for you, I'm sure."

Passing him the reins, Elanor squeezed Merry's shoulder in an understanding way and moved towards where Éowyn stood. Attempting to keep up her pretence, she gave a brief bow to the disguised shieldmaiden.

"What is it you are called, Rider of Rohan?" Elanor asked.

Éowyn's eyes twinkled beneath her helmet—which she still wore—and she bowed deferentially in return.

"Dernhelm, my lady."

 _Good, all on track so far._

"I wish to ask something of you, Dernhelm."

"Speak, lady," she replied, lowering her voice so it was at least passably masculine.

Elanor shuffled half a step closer, keeping her own tone quiet so as to avoid eavesdroppers. Truth be told, most of the other Rohirrim were busy tending their horses and rummaging in their packs for food. Several had begun to discard unnecessary items, and one or two were ferrying these things to their quarters in the city.

"Where might one acquire sufficient provisions to last the ride to Minas Tirith?"

For an instant Éowyn stared at her in silent amazement. One gloved hand reached out and squeezed Elanor's, but she spoke no word and quickly released her.

"I—I might provide them—my lady."

"And what of one hobbit?"

"Those—already accounted for."

"That is well." Elanor could not contain her smile as she glanced back at Merry.

Seeming to find her wits, Éowyn shook her head slightly. "You had best discard those belongings of which you no longer have need. You shall need all space for provisions, and ride as light as you may." There was a tone of warning in her words, as if she tested Elanor's resolve.

"I am aware of that," she replied. "Though there are some things I would not wish to have fall into another's hands."

Éowyn nodded, before raising her voice slightly so that Merry might overhear. "Come, Lady Elanor—I shall escort you to the guest quarters."

Leaving Windfola tied to a post, Dernhelm gestured that Elanor should proceed. Seeing Merry's bewildered expression, Elanor paused to speak to him as she grabbed her pack from Fundanár's saddle.

"I am merely going to deposit my belongings and refresh myself—I shan't belong, and I'll come rescue you from Fundanár," she smiled. At this, the chestnut gelding tossed his head as if indignantly—he had been a perfect gentleman.

Éowyn took her pack and led her across the courtyard and up a set of stone stairs to the entrance to Meduseld. As a ranking lady, Elanor would be afforded rooms within the house of Théoden. They entered the anteroom, where two guards stood on the alert. As Elanor and her escort approached, one raised a challenge in the Rohirric tongue. Elanor paused, at a loss to understand it.

Éowyn responded swiftly, and she caught "Elanor", "Théoden" and "Éowyn" amidst the flood of foreign words. The pair spoke for half a minute, before the soldier nodded in satisfaction.

"Forgive me, Lady Elanor," he said, turning to her and bowing slightly. "I did not know that a lady of the North guested with Théoden King. Enter if you so desire."

"My thanks," she replied, putting on her most winning smile as Éowyn pushed open a door and held it whilst she passed through. The Rohirric woman chuckled as they passed down several dark and deserted corridors.

"What did he ask?" Elanor inquired, bemused.

"He thought you were of the Eorlingas, a daughter of a Captain whom he did not recognise, come to the Golden Hall," laughed her companion. "He was far more inclined towards clemency once he discovered you were a guest and friend of the king and his niece, not a presumptuous minor noblewoman."

Elanor laughed at that, shaking her head ruefully. "I see that my appearance once again belies me."

"You are clad in the armour of Rohan."

"Are all women accustomed to dressing in this fashion in your land?"

"Many daughters of noble houses are permitted this liberty," Éowyn replied. "Though few indulge such tastes. Gowns are sewn to cause little inconvenience when one rides astride. Only in war do we clad ourselves so."

 _I could definitely stay here!_

"That's nice," Elanor said, somewhat absentmindedly. "Where are we going, Éowyn?"

"To my quarters."

"Oh. I thought I would stay in the guest wing."

Éowyn slowed and clasped the handle of a dark wooden door. Turning to Elanor, she chuckled. "If I understand your veiled meanings, Elanor of Rivendell, you do not intend to stay anywhere." Pushing the door open, the pair entered and Éowyn bolted the door from the inside.

Elanor surveyed the chamber, noting it's simple furnishings and rather liking the overall decor. Éowyn had a large four-poster bed, made of darkened timber, and graced with furs and a woollen spread of deep crimson. The floor was of stone, covered in many thick rugs, and there was a wardrobe-like object and writing desk in a similar shade to the bed. Weapons decorated the walls, save for one painting which depicted some Rohirric scenery.

"We have little time," Éowyn said, pulling her helm off to reveal a dishevelled golden head. "Come—let us deposit your goods ere Théoden King summons his marshals to war."

Elanor nodded, beginning to toss things out of her pack. Her Elvish attire—most of it in need of a wash by this stage—was refolded and placed on the end of Éowyn's bed. Any remaining food stores were replaced. Her bedroll she also retained. After dealing with the mundane items, Elanor reached to the very bottom of the pack and felt her fingers brush that which caused her most concern.

She clenched her jaw, knowing that if she was going to fling herself wholly into her new existence she could not behave like a worrisome child. Feeling as if she were about to cut off her own right arm, Elanor glanced at the unlit fireplace in one wall and then at her friend.

"Might we light the fire for a brief time, Éowyn?"

The shield maiden raised one eyebrow. "Indeed, Elanor—though if you are in need of warmth, there are other things which might serve you better. We cannot linger here."

"No, I—" She faltered. "I need to destroy some paperwork; it is of little import, but I do not wish to leave it behind, nor may I take it with me."

"Of course." Éowyn proceeded to the fireplace and within a very short space of time had a crackling fire going.

Whilst the other woman's back was turned, Elanor gently withdrew _The Lord of the Rings_ from her pack. She had left _The Silmarillion_ and _Magician_ back in Rivendell, trusting that Lord Elrond would see her quarters were left undisturbed. Here in Rohan, however… there was every likelihood she would never come back to retrieve that which she left. Her Elvish clothes were a sad loss, though she could easily get new attire in Minas Tirith.

 _If you survive the battle…_

 _Shutup._

Her book and the timeline written on the parchment tucked inside, however, were utterly different. Were someone to discover them, she would be undone.

Checking Éowyn's eyes were not upon her, Elanor gently unwrapped her sister's book and stared glumly at the cover. This was one of a handful of mementos from home—her sister's weapons had been lost months ago, and any other relics of her old life were many hundreds of miles away.

And she had to burn it.

 _The series is almost over, anyway. There's nothing coming up you're not aware of. You don't need it._

 _But…_

 _Georgia would understand._

Nodding resolutely, Elanor rewrapped the goods and rose. The fire was blazing merrily as she approached and knelt beside Éowyn.

"Is the blaze strong enough for what you have in mind?"

"It should be."

Seeming to read the reluctance on her face, Éowyn graced her with a rare smile. "I shall fetch provisions for you whilst you work."

Nodding gratefully, Elanor waited until the woman had donned her helmet and slipped out of the room before pulling off the book's wrapping and tossing it first into the fire. The flames consumed it frantically. With one lingering look at Georgia's treasure, Elanor opened the cover and grasped a small wad of pages.

Steeling herself, she tore them out.

The sound seemed louder than it should have, transcending the crackling of the fire and the sound of men and horses outside. Seeing the prologue rent from it's cover caused a stab of pain, but the damage had been done. She held it unwaveringly over the flames as they licked at the paper, only dropping it into the fire once it was well and truly caught. Tearing out a second chunk, she checked that all was being destroyed before beginning again. At length she was left with only the Appendices and the cardboard cover. Adding the last pages to the hungry flames, Elanor watched as the cover illustration was eaten up.

Georgia's book was gone.

As unpleasant as it was to see a perfectly good novel destroyed, the experience was somewhat cathartic. She'd chosen Middle Earth, willing herself to begin a life here; "This is my home now" had become her mantra, whispered to the darkness and fog of longing which crept towards her soul. Even in the pleasanter times, in which she'd convinced herself she was happy in Middle Earth, her mind had chanted the words to ward off homesickness—like an echo, scarcely heard and vehemently denied, but always present. As she put her final relic to the torch—the carefully-compiled timeline—her heart squeezed in anguish, lamenting that which was lost. She now possessed nothing which would betray her, no memento of her home world which bespoke her alienness. As deeply as it wounded her, the sensation also carried a sense of finality. She no longer leaned on the book like a crutch. Middle Earth's causes would become her own.

For once, she felt peaceful. There was loss, certainly, but quietude which transcended that. She could not live with the unspoken hope that one day she might be offered the chance to return home. She had reassured herself she would go back if the opportunity arose, protected by the impossibility of such an event.

The denial… No. She needed to commit wholeheartedly, not just to the coming war, but to a life in Arda. Had she not disrupted events, the people of Middle Earth would undoubtedly see victory. As it was, she hoped that one fairly inept sword amongst the Rohirrim might be the straw that broke Sauron's back. If she could help safeguard that which was wholesome and good, perhaps things might not go awry.

"I'm going to battle," she whispered to the flames, gently reaching out to grasp a fragment of paper which had escaped destruction, "because, like it or not, I live here now." Dropping the scrap into the fire, she sighed.

Then in her mind she saw a passage from the book she had just committed to flames:

 _"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo._

 _"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."_

"What will that be for you, Elanor Ravenscroft?" she asked quietly, losing herself in the entrancing flickers of the hearth.

 _First, war._

 _And then?_

She smiled, beset by a conflicting mass of emotions as her thoughts dwelt on her family, friends, and her beloved Tim. All of that was lost to her, and she would not attempt to deny it any longer.

 _A home_ , she thought, finally. _And, perhaps if I am very fortunate indeed—a family._

* * *

Elanor watched as Merry stood before the king, his hobbit-face twisted with despair and grief.

"This is no journey for such steeds as Stybba, as I have told you," said Théoden. "And in such a battle as we think to make on the fields of Gondor what would you do, Master Meriadoc, swordthain though you be, and greater of heart than of stature?"

"As for that, who can tell?" answered Merry. "But why, lord, did you receive me as swordthain, if not to stay by your side? And I would not have it said of me in song only that I was always left behind!"

"I received you for your safe-keeping," answered Théoden; "and also to do as I might bid. None of my Riders can bear you as burden. If the battle were before my gates, maybe your deeds would be remembered by the minstrels; but it is a hundred leagues and two to Mundburg where Denethor is

lord. I will say no more."

Merry bowed and went away unhappily, and stared at the lines of horsemen. Already the companies were preparing to start: men were tightening girths, looking to saddles, caressing their horses; some gazed uneasily at the lowering sky. Unnoticed, Éowyn approached him from behind. Elanor watched with lowered brows as the woman whispered to his ear. After a moment, the hobbit's face was lit with hope, and he dropped to the back of the column with the newly-discovered Dernhelm, a blithe expression upon his countenance.

Elanor directed her gaze downwards as the pair approached. She had donned a helm much like Éowyn's, and—with much hesitancy—swapped her Elvish cloak for the dark green of the Rohirrim. It was fastened with a golden clasp, and trimmed with red and gold thread. Elanor strongly suspected it of being Éowyn's in years past, but was glad for the method of disguise nonetheless. Merry had not seemed to recognise Éowyn, but he studied Elanor with narrowed eyes as he neared the two horses, chestnut and grey.

Trying to avoid his scrutiny, she passed Éowyn Windfola's reins which she held, and leaned down as if to check Fundanár's saddle. The other woman hefted Merry onto her stallion's back with a grunt—and no mean amount of strength. Elanor saw Éowyn swing up behind him easily despite her heavy mail. She was lithe and well-knit, and made the new arrival in Middle Earth feel weak and pitiful in comparison.

Éowyn's grey eyes met her for a moment as she pulled her cloak forward to hide Merry from the eyes of other soldiers. Several had noticed the hobbit in passing, but none appeared to make the connection between the King's esquire and the concealed figure on the great grey horse.

Merry, for his part, was watching Elanor shrewdly.

He saw a soldier even slighter than Dernhelm, though scarcely shorter. The young man—for so he must be—sat his chestnut gelding with ease, but seemed weighed down by the hauberk and shield which he bore. He had light eyes, though they were devoid of a glint in the gathering gloom. His helm hid all of his features. Craning his head slightly, Merry observed the peculiar make of the sword on the soldier's left hip. Catching sight of a flash of golden hair, his quick mind took in the familiar chestnut gelding with the long white blaze and he cried out.

"Lady Elanor!"

This was rewarded by Éowyn's firm arm clasping him about the shoulders, a gloved hand covering his mouth.

"Stay your tongue, halfling, or all shall be undone!" hissed the shieldmaiden, whilst Elanor glanced about anxiously to see if anyone had heard. Over the sounds of milling horses and talk, the hobbit's exclamation had gone unnoticed.

"Lady Éowyn?" he mumbled, attempting to turn in the saddle despite her restraining arm. She released him. "I believed you to be in Dunharrow, my lady!"

Urging Fundanár closer to Windfola, Elanor leaned towards the hobbit. "We ride to war, just as you Merry. But do as Éowyn says; speak softly, or else King Théoden will discover our ruse and we shall come to grief."

"Of course," responded Merry, in amazement, "though I do not know how you came to be here! I am glad, though," he added, smiling at Elanor. "I had thought we were to be parted, and when La—Dernhelm came and spoke to me, I was exceedingly relieved."

Elanor turned her gaze skyward, as the shadow crept nearer. "Aye, Merry, we ride to war—together. Let us pray that nothing goes wrong."

* * *

Thus it came to pass that when the king set out, before Dernhelm sat Meriadoc the hobbit, and the great grey steed Windfola made little of the burden; for Dernhelm was less in weight than many men, though lithe and well-knit in frame. And to the pair's left sped a great chestnut, slighter of build than the horses of the Rohirrim, but proud in bearing. Upon his back rode Aelfnod, his peculiar blade upon his hip engraved with alien runes.

On into the shadow they rode. In the willow-thickets where Snowbourn flowed into Entwash, twelve leagues east of Edoras, they camped that night. And then on again through the Folde; and through the Fenmarch, where to their right great oakwoods climbed on the skirts of the hills under the shades of dark Halifirien by the borders of Gondor; but away to their left the mists lay on the marshes fed by the mouths of Entwash. And as they rode rumour came of war in the North. Lone men, riding wild, brought word of foes assailing their east-borders, of orc-hosts marching in the Wold of Rohan.

"Ride on! Ride on!" cried Éomer. "Too late now to turn aside. The fens of Entwash must guard our flank. Haste now we need. Ride on!"

And so King Théoden departed from his own realm, and mile by mile the long road wound away, and the beacon hills marched past: Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, Erelas, Nardol. But their fires were quenched. All the lands were grey and still; and ever the shadow deepened before them, and hope waned in every heart.

Elanor fed the fires of her determination as she glanced at the despairing faces about her, willing herself to stand at their side and face the coming storm with the grace and composure expected of a daughter of Elrond. And yet, the hopelessness did not pass her by. With each day, the black cloud continued to weigh heavy on her spirit. She prayed frequently and with deep fervour, willing Eru to make things well.

And on they rode.

* * *

 _ **TRANSLATIONS**_

 _ **Aelfnod - supposed to be "**_ _ **Ælfnod". D**_ _ **erived from the old English elements meaning "elf" combined with "nod", which means "boldness, daring". I fancied that this name would be given to Elanor to disguise her upon the rode, as she is considered akin to the Elves and chose to be bold/daring. Based on the fact that Éowyn chooses to be called "Dernhelm", which means "helmet of secrecy". Seemed likely that Elanor might also don a name that kind of hinted at her background.**_

* * *

 **As I promised, the gap between 27 and 28 was less than between their predecessor's. I set my mind to writing and composed this today. It is slightly shorter, but that is because I wanted to finish at this particular point and get on with the battle in the next chapter. :D**

 **Biggest gripe about all these Rohirrim-based chapters is all of the accents I have to put on the names haha. I have a Mac so the keyboard shortcuts aren't terribly hard, but it's definitely more irksome than some.**

 **Hope you enjoyed it! Exciting stuff is coming, though I do tend to make things more dialogue-based and less actiony. Still, I'll try my hand at both.**

 **Stay classy :P**

 **Finwe.**


	29. The Battle for Minas Tirith Pt 1

**Chapter 29 - The Battle for Minas Tirith Pt. 1**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many of the descriptions and much of the dialogue in this chapter are taken direct from Tolkien's _Return of the King_ , with amendments by me to fit my protagonist and tale. All credit goes to the great Mr. Tolkien.**

* * *

It was dark and Elanor could see nothing as she lay on the ground rolled in a blanket; yet though the night was airless and windless, all about her hidden trees were sighing softly. She lifted her head. Then she heard it again: a sound like faint drums in the wooded hills and mountain-steps. The throb would cease suddenly and then be taken up again at some other point, now nearer, now further off. She wondered if the watchmen had heard it.

She could not see them, but she knew that all round her were the companies of the Rohirrim, and close at hand lay the small form of Merry. Éowyn had slipped away not long before. She could smell the horses in the dark, and could hear their shiftings and their soft stamping on the needle-covered ground. The host was bivouacked in the pine-woods that clustered about Eilenach Beacon, a tall hill standing up from the long ridges of the Drúadan Forest that lay beside the great road in East Anórien.

Tired as she was Elanor could not sleep. On the journey south with the Grey Company, she had had no difficulty in falling into slumber. She had ridden now for four days on end, and the ever-deepening gloom had slowly weighed down her heart. She began to wonder why she had been so eager to come, when he had been given every excuse, even Théoden's insistence, to stay behind. She wondered, too, if the old King had discovered the disobedience of the threesome and was angry. Perhaps not. There seemed to be some understanding between Éowyn and Elfhelm, the Marshal who commanded the _éored_ in which they were riding. He and all his men had ignored them when they had spoken in their higher female voices, or seen them uncover their heads; Merry had been treated more as a piece of baggage than the person he was.

Elanor could see the loneliness in the hobbit's features as they had ridden throughout the day; he seemed to pine for Pippin, and withdrawn from what little terse conversation passed between the two women. Now the time was anxious, and the host was in peril.

They were less than a day's ride from the out-walls of Minas Tirith that encircled the townlands, as far as Elanor could ascertain. Scouts had been sent ahead. Some had not returned. Others hastening back had reported that the road was held in force against them. A host of the enemy was encamped upon it, three miles west of Amon Dîn, and some strength of men was already thrusting along the road and was no more than three leagues away. Orcs were roving in the hills and the woods along the roadside. The king and Éomer held council in the watches of the night, and Elanor knew Éowyn had gone to glean information in secret. Whilst concealment was still necessary, it irked Elanor that they were no longer privy to the councils of the lords of Rohan.

Elanor wanted someone to talk to, and her thoughts drifted to months past. No longer did she think of Amanda—her best friend from home—when in need of a heart-to-heart; more easily did her foster-kin come to mind, or Legolas and Glorfindel. Éowyn, good friend that she had become, had succumbed to the black cloud of despair which clung to them all. Gone were her warmer manners; she was sterner and colder than steel.

 _Oh, but I wish this were all over; and that the ending shall be good!_

That prospect frightened her; that she might survive the coming battle, only to find those that she loved had not. The loss of Elladan or Elrohir, Legolas or Glorfindel—even Eärendur!—would cause her immeasurable grief. Somehow, the unbearable waiting and tension drove away worries of the future, but they would return soon enough she knew. For the moment, the thought that she was about to enter a battle, see death… blood… that was enough to process. Deal with grief and anger later. And, she reminded herself, it was more likely that _she_ would fall in this tussle than any of her Elvish friends.

Elanor wished she were taller and stronger, like Éowyn; or better yet, Éomer, and could blow a horn and go galloping forth with at least a reasonable chance of survival. She sat up, listening to the drums that were beating again, now nearer at hand. Presently she heard voices speaking low, and she saw dim half-shrouded lanterns passing through the trees. Men nearby began to move uncertainly in the dark, and Merry sat up near her.

A tall figure loomed out of the darkness and stumbled over the unfortunate hobbit, muttering a curse about the tree-roots. Elanor recognised the voice of Elfhelm the Marshal.

"I am not a tree-root, sir," Merry said, aggrieved, "nor a bag, but a bruised hobbit. The least you can do in amends is tell me what is afoot."

"Anything that can keep so in this devil's mirk," answered Elfhlem, solemnly. "But my lord sends word that we must set ourselves in readiness: orders may come for a sudden move."

"Is the enemy coming then?" cried Elanor, drawing the Marshal's eyes to her form. She was enveloped in her blankets, and Elfhelm was struck by how young and girlish this "Aelfnod" appeared. The Lady of the North was far less warrior-like than their own White Lady.

"Are those their drums? I began to think I was imagining them, as no one else seemed to take any notice of them," Merry added, giving an involuntary shudder. Elanor was glad to know she was not alone in having noticed the drums.

"Nay, nay," said Elfhelm, "the enemy is on the road not in the hills. You hear the Woses, the Wild Men of the Woods: thus they talk together from afar. They still haunt Drúadan Forest, it is said. Remnants of an older time they be, living few and secretly, wild and wary as beasts. They go not to war with Gondor or the Mark; but now they are troubled by the darkness and the coming of the orcs: they fear lest the Dark Years be returning, as seems likely enough. Let us be thankful that they are not hunting us: for they use poisoned arrows, it is said, and they are woodcrafty beyond compare. But they have offered their services to Théoden. Even now one of their headmen is being taken to the king. Yonder go the lights. So much I have heard but no more. And now I must busy myself with my lord's commands. Pack yourselves up, Master Bag and Lord Aelfnod!" With that, the Marshal vanished into the shadows.

"I do not like this talk of wild men and poisoned darts," muttered Merry, rising slowly from his bed and beginning to bundle his blankets together.

Elanor nodded mutely, joining him in preparing her own belongings. Waiting was intolerable. She longed to know when their time to ride would come. The Wild Men did not stir fear in her breast, now that she knew what the source of the haunting drums was. Still, it seemed fruitless to remain idle whilst Éowyn roamed about.

"Shall we go and find out what passes?" she asked, and vaguely in the gloom she saw Merry nod.

"It seems a sight better than sitting here with naught to do but twiddle our thumbs!"

Rising, the pair trod warily in pursuit of one of the dim lanterns they had seen before Elfhelm stumbled across them.

Presently they came to an open space where a small tent had been set up for the king under a great tree. A large lantern, covered above, was hanging from a bough and cast a pale circle of light below. There sat Théoden and Éomer, and before them on the ground sat a strange squat shape of a man, gnarled as an old stone, and the hairs of his scanty beard straggled on his lumpy chin like dry moss. He was short-legged and fat-armed, thick and stumpy, and clad only with grass about his waist. His attire reminded Elanor of traditional Polynesian costumes. She shoved the memory of her old world aside like it was a burning coal.

There was a silence as the two crept nearer, and then the Wild Man began to speak, in answer to some question, it seemed. His voice was deep and guttural, yet to Elanor's surprise he spoke the Common Speech or English, though in a halting fashion, and uncouth words were mingled with it. She paused at a little distance, conscious of her poor stalking skills and softly clinking chain mail. Merry, nimble of foot and clad in supple leather, moved slightly closer.

"No, father of Horse-men," he said, "we fight not. Hunt only. Kill gorgûn in woods, hate orc-folk. You hate gorgûn too. We help as we can. Wild Men have long ears and long eyes; know all paths. Wild Men live here before Stone-houses; before Tall Men come up out of Water."

"But our need is for aid in battle," said Éomer. "How will you and your folk help us?"

"Bring news," said the Wild Man. "We look out from hills. We climb big mountain and look down. Stone-city is shut. Fire burns there outside; now inside too. You wish to come there? Then you must be quick. But gorgûn and men out of far-away," he waved a short gnarled arm eastward, "sit on horse-road. Very many, more than Horse-men."

"How do you know that?" said Éomer.

Elanor rolled her eyes, feeling as if she would slap the Third Marshal of the Mark were she in the Wild Man's place. Éomer was well-meaning and proud, but came across as decidedly belligerent at times.

The old man's flat face and dark eyes showed nothing, but his voice was sullen with displeasure. "Wild Men are wild, free, but not children," he answered. "I am great headman, Ghân-buri-Ghân. I count many things: stars in sky, leaves on trees, men in the dark. You have a score of scores counted ten times and five. They have more. Big fight, and who will win? And many more walk round walls of Stone-houses."

"Alas! he speaks all too shrewdly," said Théoden. "And our scouts say that they have cast trenches and stakes across the road. We cannot sweep them away in sudden onset."

"And yet we need great haste," said Éomer. "Mundburg is on fire!"

"Let Ghân-buri-Ghân finish!" said the Wild Man, piqued, and Elanor cheered him on internally. "More than one road he knows. He will lead you by road where no pits are, no gorgûn walk, only Wild Men and beasts. Many paths were made when Stonehouse-folk were stronger. They carved hills as hunters carve beast-flesh. Wild Men think they ate stone for food. They went through Drúadan to Rimmon with great wains. They go no longer. Road is forgotten, but not by Wild Men. Over hill and behind hill it lies still under grass and tree, there behind Rimmon and down to Dîn, and back at the end to Horse-men's road. Wild Men will show you that road. Then you will kill gorgûn and drive away bad dark with bright iron, and Wild Men can go back to sleep in the wild woods."

Éomer and the king spoke together in their own tongue, exasperating Elanor. She wished she had time to learn the Rohirric language.

 _Perhaps, in Minas Tirith, with Éowyn…_

 _If all goes well, you mean._

 _Thanks for your ever-present enthusiasm and optimism..._

At length Théoden turned to the Wild Man. "We will receive your offer," he said. "For though we leave a host of foes behind, what matter? If the Stone-city falls, then we shall have no returning. If it is saved, then the orc-host itself will be cut off. If you are faithful, Ghân-buri-Ghân, then we will give you rich reward, and you shall have the friendship of the Mark for ever."

"Dead men are not friends to living men, and give them no gifts," said the Wild Man. "But if you live after the Darkness, then leave Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts any more. Ghân-buri-Ghân will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of Horse-men, and if he leads you wrong, you will kill him."

"So be it!" said Théoden.

"How long will it take to pass by the enemy and come back to the road?" asked Éomer. "We must go at foot-pace, if you guide us; and I doubt not the way is narrow."

"Wild Men go quick on feet," said Ghân. "Way is wide for four horses in Stonewain Valley yonder," he waved his hand southwards; "but narrow at beginning and at end. Wild Man could walk from here to Dîn between sunrise and noon."

"Then we must allow at least seven hours for the leaders," said Éomer; "but we must reckon rather on some ten hours for all. Things unforeseen may hinder us, and if our host is all strung out, it will be long ere it can be set in order when we issue from the hills. What is the hour now?"

Elanor clenched her hands tight. She'd known this would come up—even befuddled by weariness as she was—and still the prospect of delays sat ill with her. The time taken to mobilise a six-thousand-strong force and get it along a trail and ready to fight had never been something she'd learned. Now, the delays rubbed on her fast-fraying nerves.

"Who knows?" said Théoden. "All is night now."

"It is all dark, but it is not all night," said Ghân. "When Sun comes we feel her, even when she is hidden. Already she climbs over East-mountains. It is the opening of day in the sky-fields."

"Then we must set out as soon as may be," said Éomer. "Even so we cannot hope to come to Gondor's aid today."

 _If not today… then in 24 hours… this time tomorrow, we ride to battle…_

Elanor shivered. Her perception of the coming battle was that it would be like living through the most gory movie she had ever watched at home. Except these people would really be dying…

Merry turned and crept back to where she waited.

"Come, Lady Elanor; there is no more to be heard, and we had best prepare to depart."

The hobbit's good sense in the face of the terror warmed her heart, and Elanor nodded.

"Yes, Merry, let's."

* * *

It was night. On either side of the road the host of Rohan was moving silently. Now the road passing about the skirts of Mindolluin turned southward. Far away and almost straight ahead there was a red glow under the black sky and the sides of the great mountain loomed dark against it. They were drawing near the Rammas of the Pelennor; but the day was not yet come. Ghân-buri-Ghân had led them for the last day, and the army of Rohan had passed by ways unseen. Elanor knew they had come perilously close to being discovered by the orcs. She was relieved that the time for concealment was nearly past, even though it meant that battle was upon them.

The king rode in the midst of the leading company, his household-men about him. Elfhelm's _éored_ came next; Elanor and Éowyn had left their places in the darkness and were moving steadily forward, until they were riding in the rear of the king's guard. Elanor, in truth, had done little more than follow her reckless companion. She had no desire to be in the thick of the action, but Éowyn was needed near the King, to defeat the Nazgûl. She would not interfere with her friend's destiny.

 _So be it._

There came a check. Elanor heard voices in front speaking softly. Out-riders had come back who had ventured forward almost to the wall. They returned to the king's side.

"There are great fires, lord," said one. "The City is all set about with flame, and the field is full of foes. But all seem drawn off to the assault. As well as we could guess, there are few left upon the out-wall, and they are heedless, busy in destruction."

"Do you remember the Wild Man's words, lord?" said another. "I lived upon the open Wold in days of peace; Wídfara is my name, and to me also the air brings messages. Already the wind is turning. There comes a breath out of the South; there is a sea-tang in it, faint though hit be. The morning will bring new things. Above the reek it will be dawn when you pass the wall."

Elanor craned her ears to hear above the soft jangling of bits and the heavy breath of their horses. Her stomach was clenched and unsettled, displeased with the light meal she had consumed in the saddle an hour ago. All seemed surreal. The darkness and the smell of sweating horses, combined with the grim light above and the sight of the king's forces marshalled just in front of her.

 _These men are going to die._

 _Not all of them!_

 _…a lot of them. And quite possibly you amongst them._

Within her mind echoed almost-manic laughter, as if something within her couldn't quite believe the predicament she was in and chose to turn to crazed mirth instead. The chain mail on her arms felt alien to her fingers, the sword on her hip an unwieldy burden.

"If you speak truly, Wídfara, then may you live beyond this day in years of blessedness!" said Théoden. He turned to the men of his household who were near, and he spoke now in a clear voice so that many also of the riders of the first _éored_ heard him.

Elanor took a deep breath, realising what she was about to hear. Despite her terror, she felt an irrepressible thrill.

"Now is the hour come, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl! Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own for ever. Oaths ye have taken: now fulfil them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!"

Men clashed spear upon shield. Beside her, Éowyn's voice was also raised in a shout, and yet Elanor's throat was dry and silent.

"Éomer, my son! You lead the first _éored_ ," said Théoden; "and it shall go behind the king's banner in the centre. Elfhelm, lead your company to the right when we pass the wall. And Grimbold shall lead his towards the left. Let the other companies behind follow these three that lead, as they have chance. Strike wherever the enemy gathers. Other plans we cannot make, for we know not yet how things stand upon the field. Forth now, and fear no darkness!"

The leading company rode off as swiftly as they could, for it was still deep dark, whatever change Wídfara might forebode. Merry was riding behind Éowyn, clutching with the left hand while with the other he tried to loosen his sword in its sheath. For her part, Elanor had also loosened her Elvish blade, feeling her palm grow sweaty as she gripped the weapon. She recalled bitterly the words she had heard Théoden speak to Merry, and knew that as much was true for herself.

 _In such a battle, what would you do, Elanor? Apart from cling desperately to Fundanár, and hope at best to stay in my seat and not be pounded to death by galloping hooves!_

Glancing to Merry in the dim light, she saw a similar expression mirrored on his countenance.

 _At least in this I am not alone._

It was no more than a league to where the out-walls had stood. They soon reached them; too soon for Elanor, who had begun to feel decidedly sick. Wild cries broke out, and there was some clash of arms, but it was brief. The orcs busy about the walls were few and amazed, and they were quickly slain or driven off. Before the ruin of the north-gate in the Rammas the king halted again. The first _éored_ drew up behind him and about him on either side.

Éowyn kept close to the king, though Elfhelm's company was away on the right. Grimbold's men turned aside and passed round to a great gap in the wall further eastward. Far away, maybe ten miles or more, there was a great burning, but between it and the Riders lines of fire blazed in a vast crescent, at the nearest point less than a league distant. Elanor could make out little more on the dark plain, and as yet he neither saw any hope of morning, nor felt any wind, changed or unchanged.

Now silently the host of Rohan moved forward into the field of Gondor, pouring in slowly but steadily, like the rising tide through breaches in a dike that men have thought secure. After a while the king led his men away somewhat eastward, to come between the fires of the siege and the outer fields. Still they were unchallenged, and still Théoden gave no signal. At last he halted once again. The City was now nearer. A smell of burning was in the air and a very shadow of death. Elanor shoved down the desire to vomit, checking her helm was firmly on her head. The horses were uneasy, though Fundanár bore up with remarkable calm. But the king sat upon Snowmane, motionless, gazing upon the agony of Minas Tirith, as if stricken suddenly by anguish, or by dread. He seemed to shrink down, cowed by age. Elanor herself felt as if a great weight of horror and doubt had settled on her. Her heart beat slowly. Time seemed poised in uncertainty. The sight of Minas Tirith—her first real-life sight of the beautiful city—was tainted by shadow and flame. Fear struck her breast like an iron mallet.

 _Too late! Too late to help amend the damage I have done in coming here! Too late to save my friends… all those who have died…_

The smell of death was even more putrid than it had been at Helm's Deep. Elanor's eyes watered as she desperately fought to maintain a visage of self-control. Beside her, Éowyn sat Windfola with remarkable resoluteness. Yet Merry's face was twisted in despair.

 _Is this what it comes to?_ Elanor thought, weakly.

As she gripped Fundanár's reins, she batted aside a desperate desire to flee. Every part of her revolted at the scene before her, and more so at the thought that they had come too late to help in this battle for Middle Earth. Without a victory at Minas Tirith, Frodo and Gimli would undoubtedly fail.

 _All is lost._

Then suddenly Elanor felt it at last, beyond doubt: a change. Wind was in her face! Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting: morning lay beyond them.

But at that same moment there was a flash, as if lightning had sprung from the earth beneath the City. For a searing second it stood dazzling far off in black and white, its topmost tower like a glittering needle; and then as the darkness closed again there came rolling over the fields a great boom.

At that sound the bent shape of the king sprang suddenly erect. Tall and proud he seemed again; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before:

 _Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!  
Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!  
spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,  
a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!  
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!_

With that he seized a great horn from Guthláf his bannerbearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder.

And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Rohan in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.

 _Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!_

Suddenly the king cried to Snowmane and the horse sprang away. Behind him his banner blew in the wind, white horse upon a field of green, but he outpaced it. After him thundered the knights of his house, but he was ever before them. Éomer rode there, the white horsetail on his helm floating in his speed, and the front of the first _éored_ roared like a breaker foaming to the shore, but Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Elanor recalled Oromë the Great described in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed.

And then it came that Windfola and Fundanár leaped forward, the first time Elanor's Elvish-bred steed had acted without command from his mistress. Éowyn was leaning forward over Windfola's neck, urging her grey stallion to greater efforts. Fundanár matched him stride for stride. Elanor's sword was in her hand, held carefully outwards so she did not cut herself or her steed. Her other hand was buried deep in his blood-chestnut mane, knowing that to fall would to mean her death.

The sound of the thundering hooves was like an earthquake to Elanor's ears; she had never heard it's like, as the turf of the Pelennor Fields was torn up beneath the hooves of the Rohirrim. Her heart thudded frantically against her ribcage. Adrenaline pumped through her body like she was back on the Giant Drop at Dreamworld, fear coursing like blood in her veins. Despite her exhaustion, her mind was razor-sharp and clear. The world moved slowly before her eyes, the clenching muscles of the horse's haunches and the hair of the Rohirrim blowing as if in half speed and in sharp detail. Her mind jabbered frantically, and Elanor didn't know if the screaming came from inside her head or out of it.

She was utterly, terrifyingly mad.

And she was in a battle.

Raising her sword above her head, she shouted throatily, adding her voice to the din. Éowyn glanced across from Windfola's back; both she and Merry were taking up the battle-cry of the Rohirrim also.

Faster and faster they sped across the plain.

 _Towards battle and glory!_ Elanor cried, her body singing with the adrenaline which staved off both reason and fear.

And yet still, a cold clear voice rang through her consciousness:

 _Towards death._

* * *

 **Ok, I know this leaves you in a sort of cliff-hanger leading up to the Pelennor Fields, but I needed to split this. Part 2 is already in the works, and won't be long in coming. I just wanted to have the actual action all there together, without any horrible cliffhangers, and focus on Elanor's navigation of Pelennor and trying to keep herself from dying.**

 **I don't think it really needs to be said that Elanor will survive the battle; this is, after all, her fanfiction. Apart from that, however, I will give no word. :)**

 **Thanks ya'll for your patience! Reviews are welcome, and get keen for Part 2!**

 **Please be honest if you have criticisms (specific) of parts of my story. I love receiving these. :)**

 **Peace out,**

 **Finwe.**


	30. The Battle for Minas Tirith Pt 2

**Chapter 30 - The Battle for Minas Tirith, Part 2.**

* * *

The battlefield was a living nightmare.

Following in the wake of Théoden King was a plunging, screaming mass of humans and horseflesh. As they careered towards the road which passed across the Pelennor Fields in the direction of the River, Elanor was swept up in the bewildering terror that was war. Before the ferocity of the thundering horses, the orcs they had encountered had been crushed. Whilst a few moments before Elanor had regretted her placement in the middle of the column, now she was profoundly relieved. No creature of Sauron's survived to challenge her as Fundanár leapt nimbly across the scattered wreckage.

Her body felt like it was riding on the crest of a wave, full of the exhilaration and fear as Fundanár's sure feet ate up the turf. As they neared the road, Théoden slowed, and Elanor and Éowyn drew closer behind him. She saw the king glance around in search of new foes, before turning southward towards a bunch of peculiar looking humans. They were clad in red tunics, trimmed with gold, and bore a peculiar standard.

Théoden charged.

Snowmane was a swift steed, but the king checked him slightly as he wheeled the large stallion. Realising that she had to redirect Fundanár, Elanor clutched at the reins with her left hand, still holding her sword gingerly in her right. Luckily for her, the Elvish gelding responded to the lightest touch of the strap on his neck and obliged by following the rest of the company perfectly.

And then the real fight began.

Théoden flew towards this new group of warriors, and Elanor realised with a lurch that they would engage these forces properly. For a moment the adrenaline which had kept her moving seemed to falter, but they were off again before her buzz could die.

The two forces met in a hideous cacophony of screams and metal-on-metal. Théoden plunged towards the centre of these new enemies, and Elanor saw what appeared to be the captain rise to meet the Rohirric king. And then Elanor was faced with her own foe.

This company were also mounted, and as they met in their savage kiss Elanor saw a man loom up in her vision. With a cry, she thrust forward vaguely, catching the man on one side with the tip of the blade. Were it anything but Elf-wrought steel, she would have been dead then and there. As it were, the weapon pierced straight through his corslet made of small plates, embedded almost to the hilt. The speed of Fundanár's gallop drew her alongside her opponent, where her thrice-blessed gelding propped so she had time to withdraw her blade. Her horse half-reared as her enemy's steed threw itself against her, pressing her leg against his. His metal greaves crushed her shin against Fundanár's side, and as they drew close Elanor tugged her sword back out—out of his chest, his breathing, bleeding, _flesh_ …

The man doubled over and plunged forward over his horse's shoulder. Before Elanor could pause to think about it, Fundanár had leapt onwards, leaving a riderless horse amidst the chaos. She was faced with another opponent then, a warrior with his face twisted into a hideous scowl. He raised a sword in a menacing overhand cut, and some of Legolas' training kicked in. Positioned as he was to her right, Elanor had to twist slightly and bring her shield up to take the blow on her left arm. The impact of his cut was shattering, causing her to crumple in the saddle. Fundanár plunged forward, carrying her past him with speed that almost caused her to lose her seat. Hoping that someone behind her would deal with the furious soldier, Elanor continued on into the press of bodies.

Her ears were full of screams, slicing through her consciousness as her blade did flesh. How she managed for the next few minutes was beyond her in hindsight; Legolas' training had not all been forgotten, and the rush of battle lent strength to her weary limbs. Fundanár was an intelligent animal, and managed to guide his mistress in the wake of King Théoden without incident. Had it not been for his convenient plunging, halting and weaving, Elanor would've lost her head half a dozen times.

Having just dispatched of the latest opponent—avoided by Fundanár's timely rearing, which threw his rider off balance and allowed Elanor to swing gracelessly at his head—she found that the remainder of the forces had fled. Théoden stood in the middle of their group, his blue eyes staring coldly at the backs of their foes. His mighty shoulders rose and fell with his quickened breaths, and for some peculiar reason Elanor noticed that his white beard had been sheared off on one side. It gave him a peculiarly rakish appearance. It was an odd thing to observe, whilst the screams of dying men assaulted her ears.

In that instant, however, the light which had fallen upon the battlefield dimmed, and Elanor's armour seemed terribly heavy, and her sword like a shackle on her arm. The new morning was blotted from the sky. Dark fell about him. Horses reared and screamed. Men cast from the saddle lay grovelling on the ground.

"To me! To me!" cried Théoden. "Up Eorlingas! Fear no darkness!" But Snowmane wild with terror stood up on high, fighting with the air, and then with a great scream he crashed upon his side: a black dart had pierced him. The king fell beneath him.

"No!" Elanor cried, the sound rent from her lungs like someone had snatched her breath with cruel fingers.

Then terror beyond all she had ever known took her.

It felt as if ice clawed at her person, filling her with complete and utter dread. Her heart felt as if it were being gripped in a vice, all hope milked out with ruthless malice.

 _All is lost!_ her mind screamed.

 _There's no hope! Oh, I want to go home! I just want to go home!_

Then the fell beast came, the creature of nightmares. It was infinitely worse than Elanor could ever have envisioned, even with Peter Jackson's vivid creations. It was halfway between a bird and a lizard, winged and featherless, with leathery skin and a stench that managed to be even worse than the scent of death.

Down, down it came, and then, folding its fingered webs, it gave a croaking cry, and settled upon the body of Snowmane, digging in its claws, stooping its long naked neck.

Upon it sat a shape, black-mantled, huge and threatening. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe naught was there to see, save only a deadly gleam of eyes: the Lord of the Nazgûl. To the air he had returned, summoning his steed ere the darkness failed, and now he was come again, bringing ruin, turning hope to despair, and victory to death. A great black mace he wielded.

Her body wrought with tension, Elanor lowered her sword and watched aghast as the creature fell upon Théoden's form. She was some twenty metres away, and whilst Fundanár stood in relative quiet, Elanor had no desire to move closer. The gelding was uneasy, though he did not flee.

The knights of Théoden's house lay slain about him, or else mastered by the madness of their steeds were borne far away. Only one remained by him: Éowyn, faithful beyond fear. And Elanor saw that her shoulders quivered with emotion, for she had oft said that she loved Théoden as a father. Windfola had also borne his mistress and Merry the hobbit through the charge, though Elanor had not spared a moment to locate her friends. When the shadow had fallen, the horse had thrown them both, and now ran wild on the plain. To Elanor's great horror, she saw Merry crawling on all fours like a dazed beast, and he seemed unable to gather his wits. To her later chagrin, she could find nothing within herself to rush to his aid; her adrenaline had run it's course, and she had no thoughts now save self-preservation.

"Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!" cried Éowyn in challenge, and Elanor's heart leapt to see her friend's courage.

A cold voice answered: "Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye."

A sword rang as it was drawn. "Do what you will; but I will hinder it, if I may."

"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!"

Then Elanor heard of all sounds in that moment the strangest. Éowyn laughed, and the clear voice was like a ring of steel. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him."

 _That is the most badass thing I ever heard!_

The winged creature screamed at her, but the Ringwraith made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt. Very amazement for a moment conquered Elanor's fear. She stared in amazement at Éowyn, whose helm of secrecy had fallen from her. Her bright gold hair, released from it's bonds, gleamed upon her shoulders. Her eyes, grey as the sea, were hard and fell, though her face was stained with tears. She held her sword and shield up and at the ready. She did not blench: maiden of the Rohirrim, child of kings, slender but as a steel-blade, fair yet terrible. A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly. The outstretched neck of the Nazgûl's steed she clove asunder, and the hewn head fell like a stone. She sprang backward, for the huge shape crashed to ruin. The beast's wings were outstretched in death, and as the rider upon the creature crumpled a ray of light fell upon Éowyn's magnificent hair.

As Elanor watched, the Black Rider rose from the wreckage, and Elanor's breath caught in her throat as he swung with deadly skill at Éowyn's vulnerable form. With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like venom he let fall his mace. Her shield was shivered in many pieces, and Elanor saw that her arm hung as if broken. The woman of valour fell to her knees, bowed beneath the malice which was poised ready to kill her.

But suddenly he too stumbled and his stroke went wide, driving into the ground. With a gasp of hope, Elanor glanced to the mighty figure. Sure enough, Merry was curled upon the ground behind him, clutching his knife weakly. As was written, the hobbit had clenched his teeth and stabbed the Nazgûl behind the knee.

"Éowyn! Éowyn!" the hobbit cried.

Then tottering, struggling with her last reserves of strength, Éowyn lifted her sword and drove it between crown and mantle of the horrible creature. Her sword shattered as the great shoulders bowed before her, and his crown rolled away with a clang. Éowyn fell forward upon her fallen foe. With a gasp, Elanor realised the mantle and hauberk were empty. Shapeless they lay now on the ground, torn and tumbled; a cry went up into the shuddering air, and faded to a shrill wailing, passing with the wind, a voice bodiless and thin that died, and was swallowed up, and was never again heard in that age of this world.

With a cry of pain and relief, Elanor kicked Fundanár forward. The gelding covered the distance in barely a moment. Flinging herself from the saddle, Elanor was driven to her knees. The sickness which twisted her stomach and the weight of her armour felt overwhelming.

 _Think of Éowyn…_

The ground was strewn with bodies and with blood, but Elanor placed one resolute hand upon the turf. Pushing up with all her available strength, she regained her feet. Éowyn had not moved, but Merry stood blinking like an owl in the daylight. She saw that his face was marked with tears as he stared at the fallen king.

"Merry!" Elanor sobbed, stumbling towards him. The hobbit turned to her, his expression full of childish fear and agony. He held out his arms as she embraced him, beginning to weep as the import of what she had just seen began to sink in. Something about the hobbit made her feel motherly and protective, despite her own shortcomings.

"We ought to look upon Théoden King once more," said Merry, after a time. His body no longer quivered, and Elanor nodded.

"Come."

The king lay upon the grass, no longer beneath the form of Snowmane, who had rolled away in his agony. Elanor stood by, silently crying, as Merry stooped and lifted Théoden's hand to kiss it. And to Elanor's great surprise, Théoden opened his eyes! and they were clear, and he spoke quietly, though his words were laboured.

"Farewell, Master Holbytla," he said. "My body is broken. I got to my fathers. And even in their mighty company I shall not now be ashamed. I felled the black serpent. A grim morn, and a glad day, and a golden sunset!"

Merry could not speak, but wept anew. "Forgive me lord," he said at last, "if I broke your command, and yet have done no more in your service than to weep at our parting."

The old king smiled, causing Elanor to choke on a lump in her throat. "Grieve not! It is forgiven. Great heart will not be denied. Live now in blessedness; and when you sit in peace with your pipe, think of me! For never now shall I sit with you in Meduseld, as I promised, or listen to your herb-lore." He closed his eyes, and Merry bowed down beside him.

Presently he spoke again. "Where is Éomer? For my eyes darken, and I would see him ere I go. He must be king after me. And I would send word to Éowyn. She… she would not have me leave her, and now I shall not see her again, dearer than daughter."

"Lord, lord," began Merry brokenly, and Elanor took an anxious step forward, "she is—" But at that moment there was a great clamour, and all about them horns and trumpets were blowing. Both looked round; they had forgotten the war, and all the world beside, and many hours it seemed since the king rode to his fall, though in truth it was only a little while. But now Elanor saw that they were in danger of being caught in the very midst of the great battle that would soon be joined.

New forces of the enemy were hastening up the road from the River; and from under the walls came the legions of Morgul; and from the southward fields came footmen of Harad with horsemen before them, and behind them rose the huge backs of the oliphants with war-towers upon them. But northward the white crest of Éomer led the great front of the Rohirrim which he had again gathered and marshalled; and out of the City came all the strength of men that was in it, and the silver swan of Dol Amroth was borne in the van, driving the enemy from the Gate.

"Merry—" cried Elanor, clasping his arm and moving several steps back.

Fortunately for them, Éomer and his company sped towards them, all of the knights of the king who had managed to restrain their steeds. They all looked in wonder at the horrible creature Éowyn had killed, and then Éomer turned to the pair who stood near the fallen king.

Realising that she still wore her helm, Elanor tugged it from her head. Her long, blonde braid fell down her back. Éomer leaped from the saddle, and grief and dismay fell upon him as he came to the king's side and stood there in silence.

Glancing sideways, he seemed to take in Elanor and Merry at that moment.

"Lady Elanor!" he gasped, his stern features filled with horror. "How came you to be on the field?"

Breathing deep, Elanor stared blearily at the soldier who had irked her so much previously.

 _…he's not bad looking, in reality…_

"There are many tales to be told; now is not the time or place—"

"You should be escorted off the field, my lady," he cried, though he paused as one of the knights took the king's banner from the hand of Guthláf the banner-bearer, who lay dead. He lifted the banner up, and Théoden opened his eyes then. Seeing the banner, he made a sign that it should be given to Éomer. He didn't seem to notice Elanor, for which she was rather glad.

"Hail, King of the Mark!" Théoden managed. "Ride now to victory! Bid Éowyn farewell!" And so he died, and knew not that Éowyn lay near him. And those who stood by wept, crying, "Théoden King! Théoden King!"

Elanor lifted her hands to her face, stifling the sobs which came anew.

But Éomer said to them:

 _Mourn not overmuch! Mighty was the fallen,  
meet was his ending. When his mound is raised,  
women then shall weep. War now calls us!_

Yet he himself wept as he spoke. "Let his knights remain here," he said, "and bear his body in honour from the field, lest the battle ride over it! Yea, and all these other of the king's men that lie here." And he looked at the slain, recalling their names. Then suddenly he beheld his sister Éowyn as she lay, and he knew her. He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him, so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" he cried at last. "Éowyn, how come you here? What madness or devilry is this? Death, death, death! Death take us all!"

"Éomer, please—" cried Elanor, trying to stay any rash behaviour. But Éomer would take no counsel. Without waiting for the approach of the men of the City, he spurred headlong back to the front of the great host, and blew a horn, and cried aloud for the onset. Over the field rang his clear voice calling: "Death! Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!"

The host swept away, and Elanor sighed wearily. She had no energy to spare to convince Éomer that his sister was alright.

The knights of Théoden— _you mean Éomer, now_ —began to move about purposefully, straightening the bodies of the other knights who had fallen. Elanor watched mutely, her eyes passing unseeingly over the horrific wounds these men had taken.

They then raised the king, making a sort of stretcher out of cloaks and spears. Several others went to take Éowyn, and Elanor came to herself.

"Wait!" she called, moving as swiftly as she was able towards the fallen woman. The soldiers stared at her in amazement, seeing a second woman on the battlefield. Their leader, however, allowed Elanor to approach. Thanking Eru for her first aid training, Elanor sought for the woman's pulse.

"She lives," she breathed, relieved for that great mercy. "Her heart beats yet, though it is weak."

"We must bear her with haste," cried their leader, beginning to gather her form onto a second stretcher. "Come! For she is in need of a healer."

Satisfied that Éowyn had not been written off for the moment, Elanor cast weary eyes about for the hobbit. She was determined not to lose the poor, weary hobbit. Merry was staring glumly into nothing. Seeing him, Elanor was struck afresh with her own weariness and disillusionment.

 _No! We must gain the city… we must… safety!_

"Come Merry," she said, moving to his side and speaking softly. "We shall ride."

"Ride?" he asked, looking bewildered.

Elanor glanced towards where she had left Fundanár. The gelding, gem amongst horses, remained stock still where Elanor had left him. Thanking Eru for her horse's brilliant training—not for the first time—she clumsily shepherded the hobbit towards the great horse.

"Fundanár," Merry whispered, low, as they approached.

"Aye," Elanor replied, voice choked with peculiar emotion for the steadfastness of the animal. "We must ride; Théoden's men depart for Minas Tirith, and I have no desire to remain in this battle."

Pulling Fundanár's reins over his head with pained difficulty, Elanor cupped her hands to help Merry into the saddle. The hobbit was light, but her arms still shook with the exertion. It took several goes to mount herself, for the mail hauberk was nearly too much for her. Finally, however, with much pulling and scrambling, she was seated in front of Merry.

The men of Rohan had already begun their march towards the city, disregarding Elanor and her companion for the moment. Urging Fundanár into a gentle lope, they made up the distance. As they rode, the clouds lowered, and it began to rain. The water fell in misting droplets, settling into Elanor's cloak and half-blinding her. Absently, she realised that she had left her helm on the field…

She pulled Fundanár back to a walk as they fell in with Théoden's men. Elanor blinked to clear her thoughts. She felt numb, as if there were things she ought to be thinking about at that moment but couldn't. All she could process was her need to stick close to Merry, and to ensure that they found safety.

 _But,_ she sighed, her body aching with the strain, _I'm alive._

* * *

A mist was in Elanor's eyes of tears and weariness when they drew near the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith. She gave little heed to the wreck and slaughter that lay about all. Fire and smoke and stench was in the air; for many engines had been burned or cast into the fire-pits, and many of the slain also, while here and there lay many carcases of the great Southron monsters, half-burned, or broken by stone-cast, or shot through the eyes by the valiant archers of Morthond. The flying rain had ceased for a time, and the sun gleamed up above; but all the lower city was still wrapped in a smouldering reek.

Already men were labouring to clear a way through the jetsam of battle; and now out from the Gate came some bearing litters. Gently they laid Éowyn upon soft pillows; but the king's body they covered with a great cloth of gold, and they bore torches about him, and their flames, pale in the sunlight, were fluttered by the wind.

So Théoden and Éowyn came to the City of Gondor, and all who saw them bared their heads and bowed; and they passed through the ash and fume of the burned circle, and went on and up along the streets of stone. To Elanor the ascent seemed agelong, a meaningless journey in a hateful dream, going on and on to some dim ending that memory cannot seize.

Slowly the lights of the torches in front of Fundanár flickered and went out, and Elanor was riding in a darkness; and she thought, _This is a tunnel leading to a tomb; there we shall stay forever_. But suddenly into her dream there fell a living voice.

"Well Merry! And Lady Elanor! Thank goodness I have found you!"

Her eyes snapped upwards, as the mist cleared a little, and there was Pippin! They were in a narrow street, and he stood before Fundanár with an expression of amazement and delight.

"Where is the king?" Merry cried, "and Éowyn?" He began to weep again, and Elanor dropped a hand to his shoulder.

"They have gone up into the Citadel," said Pippin. "I think you must have fallen asleep, Lady Elanor, and your horse has taken the wrong turning. When we found that you were not with them, Gandalf sent me to look for you. Poor old Merry! How glad I am to see you again! But you are worn out, and I won't bother you with any talk. But tell me, are you hurt, or wounded, either of you?"

"No," said Merry. "Well, no, I don't think so. But I can't use my right arm, Pippin, not since I stabbed him. And my sword burned all away like a piece of wood."

Pippin's face was anxious. "Well, you had better come with me as quick as you can," he said. "They really shouldn't have let you come alone, though one lady and one hobbit coming in from the battle may be easily overlooked."

"It is not always a misfortune being overlooked," sighed Merry. "I was overlooked just now by—no, no, I can't speak of it. Help me! It's all going dark again, and my arm is very cold." Elanor wished she could comfort him, for even watching the battle had filled her with dismay.

"Come now, it's not far," said Pippin, with a reassuring smile.

"Will you ride with us, Pippin? Fundanár can easily bear another."

With some tricky manoeuvring, Pippin was installed in front of her own the saddle, able to guide them.

"Are you going to bury me?" said Merry, from behind Elanor.

"No indeed!" said Pippin, trying to sound cheerful, though Elanor could see he was wrung with fear and pity. "No, we are going to the Houses of Healing."

Elanor sighed with relief.

 _Thank Eru._

* * *

 **Elanor's first battle. It was an interesting one to right, quite challenging, and I hope I haven't made it too unrealistic, soppy, or bewildering. I wanted to convey that mostly Elanor got through it by sheer good luck, adrenaline, and her horse having more intelligence than most others of it's kind. She's not special, she's not superhuman, and most of all she had no ability to go to Éowyn's side. She wasn't able to put aside her fear and plunge through, she was paralysed. She's just a normal, terrified girl, lost in the chaos that was war.**

 **Reviews are, as ever, very welcome. :)**

 **I hope you liked it, and I am really excited for the next instalment. There's good stuff coming, there's some romance (get keen!) and some tender reunions.**

 **Thanks so, so much for all of your support and those of who that continue to follow and review. :D**

 **Finwe.**


	31. Several lengthy discussions

**Chapter 31 - Lengthy Discussions**

* * *

It felt as if she were buried deep in a velvety mass of darkness. Her mind probed outwards and found only the void; yet it was not an alarming emptiness which is prone to giving one a sense of vertigo. No, it was a comfortable-blanket-nothingness, and Elanor lay for a long time in it's welcoming depths.

At length a low murmur assailed her silence. It was nothing more than a whisper, but as her pit of inky blackness brightened to grey the sound grew louder. Finally she heard it clearly, a man's voice which rang like sonorous music:

 _"What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Elanor of Rivendell?"_

That startled her. But as the void was growing steadily lighter—now closer to white than black—Elanor allowed events to take their course.

In a rush she was conscious of her body, of aches and pains and an ability to control her form which had been nonexistent in the nothingness. Now, she commanded her eyes to open and they did so, revealing the soft light of morn and a plain ceiling above her head.

The voice did not speak again, but as Elanor's gaze travelled along her body beneath soft blankets they came to the end of the bed. And there, in an armchair, sat Glorfindel.

She threw herself into a sitting position.

"Glorfindel!"

The golden-haired Elf smiled, revealing his even teeth. "Good morning, Elanor," he said, though there was less warmth in his expression than she previously observed.

Her body felt a good deal better than the last time she had awoken to a man sitting at the end of her bed, and she shifted so she was sitting more comfortably.

Silence reigned for a moment, as Glorfindel studied her unblinkingly and Elanor began to grow uncomfortable. As her mind shook off slumber, she began to recall the events of the previous few days. The memory of the Battle for Minas Tirith crashed over her like a wave of polluted, oil-slicked water.

 _Blood… screaming… how did I… I lived…_

With that realisation came the knowledge that the tall Elf was most probably extremely vexed with her for disobeying orders and putting herself in danger.

"Why are you here, Elanor?" he asked in Sindarin, dispelling any of her doubts about his state of mind.

Still, she didn't quite know how to respond. His use of Elvish disarmed her, and she replied after some deliberation.

"The same reason as you, I suppose," she replied, trying to appear playful. Glorfindel did not smile. His expression was uncharacteristically stern, his blue eyes cool and his jaw clenched tightly.

"I will not bandy words with you, for deception and subtlety is of little use, and I would speak plainly to those who are dear to me."

 _This is not going to be good…_

"Alright…"

"That was excessively foolish!" he burst out, standing up abruptly and looming over her with all of his six-and-a-half feet. He let forth a torrent of Sindarin, some of which was lost on her but most of which was clear enough to be like a slap in the face. "Elanor, how could you be so reckless, so thoughtless, so—unwise? I know that your foreknowledge gained Lord Elrond's favour for you to travel south to Rohan, but I could not have _dreamed_ you would be so childish as to attempt to ride into _battle!_ It is a miracle you were not killed in the first charge! Whatever possessed you to do something of the kind? Lord Elrond shall be furious should he hear of such matters, and were your brothers aware of your feckless behaviour they should have come to speak to you just as I have! Elanor! I did not believe it possible that you should abandon all reason so, for you never displayed such an inkling before! Explain yourself!"

Elanor started at him, eyes wide and mouth partly open. His voice had steadily risen as he spoke, his pleasant tone growing harsh as he began to spit the accusations at her. He gestured sharply, every word punctuated by anger and disapproval. Under the fury of his gaze, she quailed as she sat.

Letting her eyes drop to the sheets, she promptly burst into tears.

She drew her hands to her face, shocked and horrified that Glorfindel—affectionate, gentlemanly, kind, cheerful _Glorfindel_ —should give her such a dressing-down. Shame and humiliation welled up inside her. As it washed over the tension of the previous week, Elanor lost all sense of control and began to weep uncontrollably. Her body shook with sobs as she drew her knees up to her face and pressed her face into them.

Vaguely, she heard Glorfindel's footsteps as he flew to her bedside.

"Elanor! Oh Elanor!"

Elanor continued to cry, indulging in the release after the tension she had endured. Her sleep had been deep and dreamless, but as she wept the images of the day before stormed her consciousness. She saw the soldiers whom had assailed her, weapons raised, and her Elvish blade piercing their bodies. She saw them fall from the saddle, dead.

Dead by her hand.

She saw blood.

Blood! Gallons of blood, heard the screams of man and horse intermingled as the Rohirrim dealt death over and over. There was bone and flesh, internal organs spilled across the once-green grass. Smoke and decay and rotting bodies, all thrown together into a horrifying quagmire which sickened her to her very spirit.

Her breathing slowed and she lifted her head slightly, staring listlessly at her own knees.

"I'm a murderer," she whispered, complete and utter shame filling her. She had never been a saint, but her family had upheld Christian principles and she had been taught to follow them diligently. There was a great deal of grey when it came to right and wrong as she had known it, but taking someone's life had never been a matter of dispute.

"Elanor!" the Elf repeated, and she turned to see the person who had just scolded her for riding into battle. Glorfindel stood beside her bed, wearing a look of utmost horror and contrition. As Elanor met his gaze, he moved slowly to her side and knelt on the floor beside her.

"I'm a murderer," she repeated, feeling as if she might vomit. "I killed people." It was barely more than a whisper, but he heard it. And as a fresh batch of tears formed in Elanor's eyes, Glorfindel reached gently out with his hand and touched her arm.

Unable to check herself, Elanor fell towards him. He caught her in his arms, pulling her tight against his chest as she sobbed without restraint. The tears fell thick and fast, her nose was quickly clogged and her breath quivered as the sickening realisation of what had just happened hit her.

 _I killed people! I stabbed people and killed them!_

 _I'm a murderer!_

She cried until she had nothing left within her. Eventually the tears ran dry, and she merely leaned against this Elf she counted as family, her shoulder nestled against him and her face resting on his collarbone.

At length he spoke.

"Elanor, forgive me," he whispered in the Common Tongue, "for I should not have spoken so. I came to aid Aragorn in healing Lady Éowyn and Meriadoc, only to discover that you had also ridden to war beside them." He hesitated, his breath catching a little. "The Nazgûl had affected you with it's foul Black Breath, though to a far lesser extent than your companions." He squeezed her gently.

"I'm sorry," she quivered, fingers clinging to the fabric of his tunic. "I—I didn't think."

"You are unhurt?"

"Yes."

Elanor sniffled, before gently pushing herself away from Glorfindel so she was sitting upright. She smiled weakly.

"Sorry about that," she managed, sniffing again.

Glorfindel's eyes glinted queerly, and he looked down as if discomfited.

 _Good one, making the Elf awkward Elanor!_

"Do not apologise," he said instead. "I feared for you greatly, for I knew not you lay in the Houses until the Healer-woman led Aragorn and I hence. The fault is mine; I should not have addressed you so, knowing what you must have endured."

Elanor nodded and glanced downwards, trailing her hand across the bedclothes. She had cried herself out, and now all that was left was a horrid, numb lump within her chest and the echoing accusation within her mind:

 _You're a murderer._

"Are you well, truly, Elanor?" Glorfindel pressed gently, reaching out to clasp her hand and drawing her eyes to his. Again she was caught by the flicker of something unknown within his blue eyes.

"Physically? Yes. But—I killed people!" she said, her brow creased. "I cannot believe I—I took someone's life. I killed. I'm a murderer."

"A murderer you are not! Death in war is not murder, Elanor."

She paused, still sickened with revulsion.

"In my world, only a small amount of people fight in wars. None of my family has fought and killed, and I had never used a sword till Rivendell." She spoke softly, staring into the blanket as she could not meet Glorfindel's eyes. She spared no effort with her speech, disarmed by her grief and the presence of one who knew her past. "I had never fought before, and I never wanted to. Don't tell me I'm foolish, because I didn't even want to go into that battle today—yesterday… whenever it was. I didn't want to. But I'm stuck here, Glorfindel—" She looked up imploringly "—and I may as well make the most of it. It really hit me, after you guys left for the Paths of the Dead. I am never, ever going back to my parents, or Georgia, or Tim. Never. So I thought, well, seeing as this is my life now, that I should… help. I didn't want to be left behind, not again. I've lost a lot. I said goodbye to Rivendell, and to you, and Legolas—and then I said goodbye again after a tiny while at Dunharrow. And I just hated the idea of being stuck at Edoras. I hated battle, but I hated being silly and useless more. Merry came to fight, and he's smaller and weaker than me. He's innocent, and young, and he shouldn't have been there. Éowyn shouldn't either. But they both didn't let fear overcome them; they went anyway. Could I say the same of myself? No. I just wanted a cosy existence. I wanted it so badly, to be wrapped up in a blanket in Elrond's study playing chess with Bilbo, or learning Sindarin from you. It was all so much fun! And then this quest happened, and it all got thrown up. You have no idea how much I want security. At first I wanted to be back home, in my old world. And then I kinda realised it wasn't going to happen, so I settled for a life of peace here, in Middle Earth. And look where that got me. All I wanted was to be safe, and loved and secure, but I couldn't. The only thing I hated more than the idea of being in constant danger, was seeing the people I cared about walk into it and being stuck on the sidelines. I'm nothing special, I have no skills or strength, and I would've been next to useless in the Fellowship. But I made it to Rohan, and I wanted to commit to my life here…"

"You have suffered much, and I have added to your grief," muttered Glorfindel, frowning down at his hands.

"No, no, don't blame yourself," Elanor replied, sniffing and reaching out to brush his arm. "It was my fault. I guess I just… figured that this is my world now, and I wanted to be… reckless. I'd lost a lot and I think all my sadness kinda caught up with me. It was like a suicide mission." She gave a weak laugh.

"Speak not of such things!" he said, horrified. "It is not for you to seek death in battle! You are dearly beloved by Elrond's household—and by many others."

Elanor gave a flicker of a smile. "I know. I've got so many good friends—and you're one of the greatest. I'm sorry for scaring you, and I'll face Elladan and Elrohir myself if you like, once I've got it together a bit. I probably should've just gone on the Paths of the Dead with you guys, rather than with the Rohirrim. But it's easy to say that afterwards."

"No, I believe you chose right not to journey with us. The road was long and hard, and equally perilous. Many days we rode with no rest or respite, and you should not have endured such an ordeal. Though," Glorfindel also smiled slightly, "I know better now than to question your fortitude at every step."

Elanor returned the gesture, deeply relieved to see that he was showing some of his old good spirits. She sighed then, as images of dead faces hammered her mind again.

Glorfindel studied her sharply for a moment before speaking. "Is it practice in your world to count your soldiers as murderers, Elanor?"

Elanor frowned. "Of course not…"

Glorfindel gestured with open hands, and she caught his meaning.

"I know," she sighed, rubbing one watery eye. "But it's easier to say than believe. I never was in that situation, of 'kill-or-be-killed'. So I never thought about it. Of course, I wouldn't say our armed forces were murderers, but—"

"There is your answer, Elanor."

She sat in silence for a moment, unable to challenge his logic but still feeling inexorable horror at what she had done. No words were forthcoming, so she hugged her knees to herself, as if the gesture would hold all the aching pieces of her heart together.

"Elanor, I truly am sorry that I spoke so cruelly earlier," Glorfindel said, breaking the quiet. He spoke low, and yet met her gaze squarely. "I should never have questioned you in such a manner. 'Tis poor justification for my actions—" He shuddered and began again. "Elanor, you know my past. You know that which I have seen, in the fall of the Hidden City. There I saw my dearest friend fall, and felt paralysing fear for the lives of those whom I served."

Elanor simply watched, the ever-at-ease Elf suddenly lost for words.

"I think I understand."

He glanced up. "I believe you do. I was charged to defend Lady Idril, Elanor; the woman whom I had come to count so dear, and all of her kin in peril, and I helpless to save them." He shook his head and spoke with renewed steel. "To see you abed yestereve, covered in the blood of other men and with a deathly pallor upon your face, I was filled with dread, for it seemed to me that dark memories of ages past had come once more to assail me. The ghosts of my previous life were playing sport with the woman who so closely resembled the daughter of Turgon."

Elanor stared into nothing, feeling the weight of Glorfindel's hurt. His voice was iron, and she had not observed the least hardness within him until that moment.

Then she smiled softly.

"I have browsed long and hard in Elrond's library, mellon, and perused many images of the Lady Idril. And still I cannot understand the likeness you draw between us."

Glorfindel smiled and shrugged. "Your hair is much like hers, though little else of outward appearance could be called similar. 'Tis more than that, Elanor."

"All good, I hope?" she teased, though it was a half-hearted effort. She still found it hard to move beyond the images of the battlefield…

Glorfindel raised one immaculate eyebrow. "Should I speak ill of any belonging to Turgon's line?"

Then it was her turn to shrug, and her expression grew serious again.

"Thankyou for listening," she said, simply.

Glorfindel smiled. "I count it a pleasure to speak with you, on any topic." Then he reached out and took her hand, and for a moment they sat in silence.

It felt to Elanor as if a war raged inside her; the guilt, accusations and lingering images lashing viciously against the warmth inspired by Glorfindel's care and loyalty. Her relief at being alive and in one piece was tainted by disgust at _how_ she had managed to live—at the expense of other humans. Glorfindel's logic and good sense barely held sway against the irrational but vocal screams of _"Elanor you're a horrible, horrible person and murderer!"_ The warmth of his hand on hers was like a conscious beacon which kept her sane.

 _Is this what PTSD is like?_ she wondered.

 _Well now you know what those war veterans at home went through…_

 _Yeah, and I—_

The thought was cut short as Glorfindel shifted slightly.

He opened his mouth, seeming as if he teetered on the brink of divulging something that troubled him. Elanor watched, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. He seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, before pressing his lips firmly together.

"Everything alright?"

His gaze lingered on her face for a moment, searching her features thoroughly for Elanor-knew-not-what. After a moment he gave a slight shrug of the shoulders.

"Forgive me. There is nothing amiss. But I believe I ought to return to your foster-brothers and Lord Aragorn, for there are important councils which shall pass ere this day ends. It would please them, I am sure, to see you, for I shall tell them of your coming and your safety. Do you feel able to entertain visitors?"

Elanor smiled and nodded vigorously.

 _Anything to distract me from this… nightmare._

"Of course. I would be glad to see them."

Glorfindel clambered to his feet, showing none of the stiffness that would linger in the limbs of a man after kneeling on the hard floor. "Then I shall leave word with the Healers that they are not to be withheld from you."

"Do you have the authority to do that?" Elanor quirked an eyebrow.

Glorfindel smiled slyly. "I came hence with Aragorn, and watched as he drew Lady Éowyn and many others from the brink of death. I believe Healer Ioreth shall not hinder any if I say you are well enough to greet them. Legolas, too, would wish to speak with you. He waits in the command tent upon the field. Might I send him to brighten your bedside?"

Elanor nodded. "That would be wonderful. Thankyou."

The Elf smiled and bowed. "I will come to speak with you again soon."

He moved to the door and opened it. With a last, lingering look and his promise hanging in the air, Glorfindel departed Elanor's room and passed out into the Houses of Healing proper.

* * *

Glorfindel pulled the door to with a gentle click. As soon as his view of Elanor was veiled, he sighed heavily and fell back against the cool stone wall.

 _Aulë save me._

He covered his face with his hands, and there remained for quite some time. His chest felt tight and his cheeks hot. Nothing had ruffled his composure this much in… well… an age. Whilst "ruffled" was a relative term—he still appeared more collected than any save Lord Elrond in his distress—the notion disturbed him.

His stomach fluttered. When he closed his eyes, his vision was imprinted with the image of a slight, golden-haired woman lying helpless on a bed. This swiftly shifted to reveal her tear-stained face and form shaking with desperate tears—tears he had inflicted. The thought made him sick.

Many sleepless days on horseback had left him surprisingly worn, and with an abundance of time for contemplation. Too much time, if he were truthful.

Pushing himself away from the door, Glorfindel strode down the corridor. His light footfalls were unnoticed by the healers, and he passed no one as he left the houses.

 _I did not ask for this! I have not desired this since… since…_

 _An age it truly has been!_

 _And yet here you find yourself in a more complicated tangle than last time! A mortal! Aulë forbid!_

He clenched his fists as he walked, long legs carrying him swiftly down from the upper levels towards the gates of the city. He passed many people of the city blindly, not noticing the wide-eyed stares from the Gondorians. With his immense height, long gold hair and the alien beauty of his features, he was a peculiar sight amongst the raven-haired kin of Boromir and Aragorn. He was too preoccupied to notice, his normally pleasant face hardened into a pensive frown.

Eyes flicking skyward, his mind sent forth a powerful shout.

 _I would never have sought this, not… especially not whilst I were tasked with such a mission! I have never… for Nienna's mercy, I should never have asked… but now, now I am ensnared with no hope of escape!_

Something within him chuckled.

 _Would you truly desire to escape from this, Glorfindel of Gondolin?_

He smiled wryly, reaching the first level and angling towards the wreckage that was the gates of Minas Tirith.

 _Nay; never._

* * *

Elanor stared at the door through which Glorfindel had just disappeared. With the Elf gone, she found that the room was eerily quiet, and that she was very much alone.

 _Thank goodness he's sending Legolas, Elladan and Elrohir to visit! I need to see them again… they must be heading off to the Battle at the Black Gate soon…_

Feeling fairly able to move, Elanor pulled back the blankets and stretched her feet towards the floor. She had been clad in a silky, cream nightgown. Climbing to her feet, she padded across the stone floor to the single window in her room. It looked upon a narrow stretch of grass populated by several trees, and hemmed in by a tall stone wall.

She stared at the wall, getting lost in the regular pattern of the bricks. Anything to block out the screams which echoed in her mind like she was hearing an iPod on repeat.

 _I wonder where Éowyn and Merry are…_

Turning away from the window, Elanor opened the door and peered outside. The corridor was cool, silent and deserted. Leaving it open so she would notice the passing of one of the healers, Elanor returned to her bed to wait.

Not long later, a healer woman who called herself Ioreth made an appearance. She questioned Elanor thoroughly on her state of well-being, examined her thoroughly, and pronounced her quite well recovered.

"Still," the matronly woman said sagely, "we shall keep you here several days more. I believe you are in the company of the other woman who dwells here, Lady Éowyn?"

"Yes; may I see her?"

"Not today. Tomorrow she shall be fit to receive visitors. Once you are recovered, I shall see you are moved to be near her. I believe she might delight in your company, and you shall be good for her. You are a better patient than she, Lady Elanor."

Elanor half-smiled, knowing full well how Éowyn would likely be resisting bed rest.

"Thankyou, Ioreth. Might I have something to eat, please?"

"Certainly. I shall send a tray in for you. The Elf Lord has informed me you shall be receiving visitors today."

"Yes; is that alright?" Elanor asked meekly, hoping to win the approval of the rather stern healer.

"Yes, dear," she smiled, her grey eyes twinkling. "Rest yourself, dear. Do not hesitate to call if there is aught that you need. There is a bell beside your bed that you may ring to summon one of my staff."

"Thankyou."

The time after the healer departed left Elanor with far too long to think. She hoped Glorfindel had informed Legolas and her brothers straight away, and that they would come to speak with her soon. The horrific images kept battering against her mental defences, but she threw all her weight towards resisting. She had to, or it'd overwhelm her.

A pretty young healer apprentice came after a short time, bearing a welcome tray of breakfast. Surprisingly, the day was still young; Elanor had woken to discover Glorfindel in her room just after the eighth hour. The young woman looked similar to all of the Gondorians; near-black hair and grey eyes. Still, it was a sight different from the first breakfast-in-bed Elanor had had in Middle Earth. This girl was nothing like Indilwen on that first day, though no less welcome.

After eating, Elanor fell asleep for several hours. This sleep was troubled, embittered by the memories which jumped upon her when her mental defences were lowered. She was utterly relieved to be woken by Ioreth several hours later.

"An Elf to see you," she said, the bewilderment at the exotic visitors written on her face. Elanor smiled at the healer, knowing that she must appear as a Rohirric woman and that the attention of the Elves was extremely odd.

"Thank you, Ioreth."

A moment later Legolas entered. Elanor did not hesitate to leave her bed to embrace him enthusiastically, delighted to see her sparring partner and stoic friend.

"Elanor!" Legolas smiled, twirling her in his delight. "When Glorfindel told me of your presence, I hurried here as swiftly as I could."

"It is good to see you," Elanor laughed, when he planted her on the floor.

 _Imagine if Ioreth had seen that display!_

"And you! I did not imagine to be reunited with you so soon, though I wish the manner of your coming was not as it is." His jovial expression became solemn. "I was most alarmed to hear of your exploits, Elanor."

She sighed, returning to sit on the side of her bed whilst Legolas pulled up the armchair.

"I wish it were different as well, Legolas, but I am here and unharmed, so there is no point giving me another scolding; Glorfindel's was more than thorough!"

Legolas raised an eyebrow at that.

"What, you rascal?" Elanor grinned, wondering at the knowing expression on his countenance.

Legolas shook his head and laughed. "Nothing, nothing. I am merely playing the fool; it is so long since I have had a chance to do so. Last time we spoke you were immensely weary. I am pleased to see you better on this occasion, for though you seem to have walked a difficult road, you do not seem dead on your feet." He winked.

"No, I feel much better rested," she admitted. "I suppose Aragorn put me in some kind of enchanted sleep when he tended me yesterday, for I slept solidly for… well, I don't know how long! I remember nothing since finding Pippin found me in the city yesterday and dragged me to the Houses of Healing. I have heard that Éowyn and Merry are still here, and that I might go and see her tomorrow. I am sure she is horribly restless. You would like her, Legolas; she has seen much suffering, but when she sets her mind to it she is cheerful and sunny."

"That is well, then; it will do you good to have a companion," he smiled.

"Yes, I am happy to have her. Where are Elladan and Elrohir?"

"Oh! alas, for I forgot the message they bid me to relay to you. They are unfortunately occupied with business this morn, and send their deepest affection and well-wishes, and a promise to visit you as soon as they may. I have heard something of the council of our leaders today, and I believe the army shall not linger here long. Aragorn wishes to strike at the enemy once more, and to give Sam and Gimli a greater chance to reach Mordor."

 _Sam and Gimli… so many things to think on, and to worry about… goodness me…_

"So much has happened I've half forgotten about the quest for the Ring; staying alive has been trouble enough." She leaned back on her pillows and sighed. "Oh, but I was glad to see Glorfindel there before me this morning! To see him in one piece, and to hear that all of my companions from Rivendell are also unharmed!"

Legolas grinned into his hands, seemingly entertained by some great joke of his own.

"I do not doubt that he was as glad as yourself, Elanor."

* * *

 **Elanor is reunited with Legolas and Glorfindel! Though I do feel a bit... awkward with this chapter, I feel as if it ends/begins peculiarly. As if there was something more to add to it, but I couldn't quite manage it without making the chapter twice the length it presently is. I'm just trying to puzzle things out for the next little while, but Chapter 32 is also in the works.**

 **Also, I hope your Glorfy-Elanor shippers are happy. ;)**

 **Finwe.**


	32. Gi melin

**Chapter 32 - "Gi melin."**

* * *

"You look scarcely any worse for your ordeal, Éowyn."

"I feel well in body, save my arm only; but I shall sicken anew, if there is naught that I can do. Are there no tidings of war? The women can tell me nothing!"

Elanor smiled slightly.

"I have but few tidings; I had a visitor yesterday who spoke of a council of the Lords of the West. They were to decide a course of action by last night, and I have hope that we might hear word of their doings today," she said, trying to soothe the other woman's spirit.

 _Best not to tell her that I already know what will happen!_

Éowyn's face brightened at this. She was paler than usual, but her grey eyes were clear and sharp. She sat half propped up in her bed with one arm carefully wrapped in a linen sling. Aragorn's treatment had gone a long way towards her recovery, for apart from her broken arm and a weary expression, she bore few traces of her encounter with the Lord of the Nazgûl.

For her part, Elanor felt almost normal. Her sleep had been reasonable—whether due to her desperate plea to Eru for good rest or not—and she had been eager to escape her room that morning. After breakfast, Ioreth had entered leading two young serving women to tend her. They brought with them fresh raiment—a dress, the first she had worn in many weeks.

Unlike the Elvish and Rohirric fashions, Gondorian sleeves were not miles long but were either fitted or puffed, drawing close about their wearer's wrists. This particular garment was a medium blue-grey velvet, with a waist that cinched about the narrowest part of her slim form, a high collar, and slim sleeves heavily embroidered. The embroidery thread also traced the bodice and about the hem of the skirt, the heavy folds clinging pleasantly to her slender form.

The serving women had then turned themselves to her long curls, which Elanor had washed the night before. With deft fingers they had fastened it back into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck, pulled softly away from her face in pleasant loops and twists. The whole effect was surprisingly pretty, and much nicer than the braid she had become accustomed to whilst travelling.

Feeling cleaner and fresher than she had in weeks, Elanor had been led to Éowyn's chambers. The Rohirric woman was brightly awake, and greeted her with unbridled joy.

"It irks me to be so confined, Elanor," Éowyn muttered, eyeing the former's attire and freedom of movement with envy.

"Confined? You are not clad in the corsetry of Minas Tirith!" countered Elanor, running her hand over the stiff, boned garment which went under the gown. Whilst it didn't shrink her waist over-much—she was slim enough already—it yanked her shoulders back and forced her to adopt rigid good posture.

"Aye, I have heard as much," said Éowyn darkly. "Give me the raiment of my own people!"

Elanor laughed, rising from her chair and moving to the other woman's window. This one afforded a better view across the gardens, and she was admiring a bush about to burst into flower when Éowyn spoke again.

"From whom did you glean your information about the war, Elanor? Perhaps I shall seek him out also, for there is much I wish to know."

She turned, but did not resume her seat. The corset was too confining.

"Legolas. Or, I suppose, Prince Legolas, as he is rightly to be named. He is the younger son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, a kingdom far to the North," she supplied, at Éowyn's confused expression.

"An Elf, then?"

"Yes; two of my Elvish friends visited yesterday."

"And the other?"

"Lord Glorfindel, who dwelled in Lord Elrond's house with me before I came hither." Elanor smiled slightly. "He was mightily upset that I had followed you on this desperate errand, Éowyn."

The woman sighed. "Speak not of it, Elanor, for my heart is heavy. Théoden was dearer-than-father to me."

Kicking herself inwardly for the indiscretion, Elanor sought hurriedly for another topic of conversation.

"I shall have to introduce you to Legolas and Glorfindel."

Éowyn nodded absently. "I should like that. I wonder who commands in the city, for surely Lord Aragorn and my brother shall both ride to battle once more."

"I believe that Lord Faramir—" Elanor suddenly cut herself off.

 _Faramir, the Steward… but no, because Boromir… Boromir's alive! I wonder if Denethor killed himself anyway… I'll have to ask Glorfindel. Goodness, that could throw a spanner in the works! I wonder if Faramir even got sent to retake Osgiliath with Boromir still alive!_

"Is all well, Elanor?" inquired Éowyn as she noticed her companion's anxious expression.

"Oh, yes, of course Éowyn. I just recalled that there are many questions that are yet to be answered. My understanding of Gondor and it's workings is, I believe, rather outdated."

"I forget sometimes that you are an advisor to great lords, Elanor."

Elanor grinned. "None so great, Éowyn, though I do what I may."

 _And now I'm utterly excluded from the whole thing, until the others come back. Thank goodness Glorfindel promised to come again today, there are a lot of things I need to know!_

For several hours, Elanor sat or paced Éowyn's bedchamber, half-heartedly discussing a plethora of topics whilst both women grew increasingly bored and restless. By late morning, Ioreth entered to check on the shield-maiden of Rohan, and Elanor hastily excused herself to walk in the gardens.

The air was slightly chilly, so she donned a cloak left by one of the serving girls and hurried for the nearest door leading out of the Houses of Healing.

The gardens which surrounded this fairly primitive hospital were well-tended and pleasant, though without the magnificence of Rivendell's flora and fauna. It was only early spring, and most plants had just begun to show signs of life. The air was damp and cool, for it appeared that Gondor saw it's wet season leading into summer—a comfortingly familiar notion for a woman who heralded from the sub-tropics.

Elanor soon found the main path leading out of the Houses, passing across a close-cropped lawn and leading towards the city proper. As much as she wished to escape, Elanor knew that she had little hope of locating her friends in the maze that was Minas Tirith. Glorfindel had said the Prince of Dol Amroth and the now-king Éomer dwelt within the city, but she knew that Aragorn, her foster-brothers and other companions had remained camped upon the battlefield. Whilst they would speak on her behalf, she was yet unknown to the other lords of men. A woman wandering alone—albeit a well-dressed woman—would not simply be allowed to march into the citadel without an escort or warrant of some kind.

 _Unless…_

Glancing upwards towards the citadel, Elanor squinted as she attempted to discern the standard which flew above the city. As best she could tell, it was a silvery swan-ship upon a blue background—the standard of Dol Amroth.

 _Which means Faramir's definitely not in charge… and neither is Boromir… but where is he then? Glorfindel said he was fine, that he had begun to walk towards Minas Tirith. And if Imrahil's in charge, it means that the book has reasserted itself, and both Faramir and Boromir are dead, or just Boromir… at the very least, Denethor's gone… so where are the others? How come Denethor killed himself if Boromir still lives? Goodness me!_

Frowning at the path, Elanor sighed.

 _Hurry up Glorfindel—Legolas—Elladan—someone!_

Feeling piqued and desperate for information, Elanor seated herself upon a bench in plain view of the entrance to the Houses. Were any of her companions to come in search of her, they could not miss the golden-haired figure who sat like a wooden sentinel beneath a budding tree.

* * *

Legolas studied the buildings with a keen eye as he trod the cobblestoned streets of Minas Tirith. To his left walked Glorfindel, at least outwardly enraptured by the architecture. Much of it was well-conceived, erected by the Men of Númenor in the height of their splendour, for before the line was diminished they had possessed much lore and skill.

"There is some good stone-work here," Glorfindel remarked, as he looked at the walls; "but also some that is less good, and the streets could be better contrived. When Aragorn comes into his own, he ought to seek the services of the stonewrights of Erebor, for the Dwarves might make this a town to be proud of."

"They need more gardens," said Legolas. "The houses are dead, and there is too little here that grows and is glad. If Aragorn comes into his own, the people of the Wood shall bring him birds that sing and trees that do not die."

"That is well; the city's gardens could be much improved were they tended by the hand of the Elves of the Greenwood," nodded Glorfindel, his gaze moving upwards towards the citadel. The Noldorin Elf was sharp in his assessment of stonework, after the manner of his people. The Sindarin and Silvan Elves tended more towards the woods and creatures of the forest, and Legolas longed to see the White City softened by flourishing gardens.

The two members of the Fellowship walked several paces behind the dark-haired figures of Elrond's sons; Elladan and Elrohir walked in perfect unison, speaking in soft voices. They followed the path upwards as it wove across the tiers of the city. Without faltering, they traced the route to the Houses of Healing.

Legolas glanced across at Glorfindel as they climbed a flight of stairs. Elrond's second appeared to have retreated within himself, for his eyes stared unseeingly at the path before him and his lips were pressed tight together. He had returned to the campsite wearing a similar expression the day before. It had taken but a moment for Legolas to read into the clenched jaw and sad eyes. His visit to Elanor had merely affirmed his suspicions.

Yet Glorfindel said nothing.

The Wood-elf smiled to himself. He had spent enough time in the company of the golden-haired lord to know that he was inherently straightforward, though with a propensity to puzzle things out in silence first.

 _He must speak soon, for he has dwelt on this predicament long enough; in any other instance such a thing might be objectionable, but in this case… he is no less unusual than she. One might overlook her mortal heritage were Glorfindel to voice his feelings. No, he shall undoubtedly make himself known soon. Today, if I can contrive it..._

Elladan and Elrohir soon turned to the entrance to the Houses of Healing. Just inside the gate, sitting in stately fashion and elegantly clad, was Elanor. She glanced up as she heard footfalls upon the path, and in the blink of an eye had flown across the lawn to embrace her foster-brothers, her cloak discarded on the bench behind her.

The twins pulled her into their arms as one, her golden head lost behind their raven ones. When at length they released her, she wore a blithe smile. She then glanced behind to Glorfindel and Legolas.

The latter grinned as Elanor reached up to hug him also. She released him and stepped to his left to embrace Glorfindel. Legolas watched carefully as he also greeted the young woman, hands barely touching her in their embrace before he stepped cautiously away. If Elanor noticed his hesitancy, she gave no sign. Her delight transcended all Elvish customs of polite greeting. As much as his father and brother would have disapproved, this slip of a woman's bright and affectionate nature was appealing. In most instances she behaved as decorum demanded; today, none would scold her for her unmeasured joy. Truth be told, there was none to observe them, and the happiness on her countenance rendered her beautiful.

 _Little wonder Glorfindel sees so much in her!_

Then she slipped a hand through each of her brothers', leading them deeper into the gardens with a delighted expression on her face.

* * *

"Come; I take you shall not wish to enter the Houses, for the gardens are much more pleasant. There are many wounded indoors, and I believe they shall be expelling me without much delay. I hardly warrant hospitalisation," Elanor laughed, glancing from one to the other of them.

Glorfindel forced his countenance into submission as he followed the others across the lawn. Elanor filled his vision; the light glinting on her hair, the trim tautness of her figure, her quick movements and glinting eyes. She smelled of sweet flowers and honey, an intoxicating aroma which lingered in the air.

"I have dozens of questions for you all," the woman continued, pausing at a bench and sitting down. "None here know who reigns in the city, or else they do not inform me if they do know as much. I see Prince Imrahil's standard flying; yet surely Lord Denethor rules Minas Tirith, and both his sons after him?" She waited whilst Elladan and Elrohir positioned themselves on either side of her. Glorfindel joined Legolas upon the grass at her feet. He admired the subtle way Elanor broached the subject without hinting of her foreknowledge to the Silvan Elf.

"Alas!" sighed Elrohir, his grey eyes hard. "Lord Denethor is dead."

Glorfindel could not help studying Elanor's face as the younger son of Elrond uttered the stone-cold words. Judging by the lack of alarm upon her fair features, this was not news to her.

 _Her prophecies still hold true._

"And what of Boromir, and his brother?"

Elrohir turned to Glorfindel then, who hurriedly gathered his wits and drew his eyes away from the woman.

"I have heard naught of Lord Boromir since his departure from the Fellowship some weeks ago," he said. "The fact that he is not yet within the city is a cause for some concern. Perhaps, though, it is not to be wondered at. Lord Éomer reported many _yrch_ upon the road."

Elanor's eyes gleamed, and she nodded. "And Lord Faramir?"

"Lord Faramir," said Elladan, "was charged to retake Osgiliath, though his company was small and all hope had deserted them. He was brought from the field, grievously wounded. I know not what occurred, but Gandalf was most disturbed by the course of events, and seemed very relieved when Aragorn was able to draw Faramir from the brink of death."

"And so, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth holds Minas Tirith, and with him abides King Éomer of Rohan," Elrohir concluded, one hand absently rubbing Elanor's. "Lord Aragorn does not wish to speak his claim to the throne as yet, and dwells with us."

"Yes," Elanor smiled, "I knew that. Glorfindel told me." Her green eyes met with his for an instant. Something protective surged within him, for there was sadness veiled heavily in those starry orbs.

 _Worry still plagues her. Aulë forgive me for the pain I have caused!_

"And what of the council? What does Lord Aragorn desire to do after this battle?"

"Gandalf spoke first, for the value placed upon his wisdom stems not only from the Valley of Imladris. He is much changed, Elanor, from when you last saw him," smiled Elladan, the gravity of the moment unable to quench the cheerful twin's ready grin. "He raised his voice, and said, 'My lords, listen to the words of the Steward of Gondor before he died: You may triumph on the fields of the Pelennor for a day, but against the Power that has now arisen there is no victory. I do not bid you despair, as he did, but to ponder the truth in these words'."

"Grim words," Elanor said softly.

"Indeed. For then he went on: 'The Stones of Seeing do not lie, and not even the Lord of Barad-dûr can make them do so. He can, maybe, by his will choose what things shall be seen by weaker minds, or cause them to mistake the meaning of what they see. Nonetheless it cannot be doubted that when Denethor saw great forces arrayed against him in Mordor, and more still being gathered, he saw that which truly is. Hardly has our strength sufficed to beat off the first great assault. The next will be greater. This war then is without final hope, as Denethor perceived. Victory cannot be achieved by arms, whether you sit here to endure siege after siege, or march out to be overwhelmed beyond the River. You have only a choice of evils; and prudence would counsel you to strengthen such strong places as you have, and there await the onset; for so shall the time before your end be made a little longer'.

"Then Prince Imrahil spoke, saying 'Then you would have us retreat to Minas Tirith, or Dol Amroth, or to Dunharrow, and there sit like children on sand-castles when the tide is flowing?' Gandalf then said he did not counsel prudence, though victory could not be achieved through strength of arms. He then brought forth a short account of the Ring of Power, and of Sam and Gimli's quest."

Glorfindel stole another fleeting glance at Elanor, noting her desperately controlled impatience. If his guesses were correct, she had heard this tale before; it was told only for the sake of keeping up appearances before Legolas.

 _And why she does not speak to him of her heritage also, I know not! He should not betray her; she is beloved in his sight also… is it possible…?_

He shook himself mentally.

 _Prince Legolas of MIrkwood—second son though he is—would not give away his heart so rashly as the bold and reckless Lord of the House of the Golden Flower._

Something within him seemed to find this thought sardonically amusing.

"What you mean to say," said Elanor, breaking through his reverie at the conclusion of Elladan's narrative, "is that all of you shall march upon Mordor, though the battle be hopeless and there is every likelihood that you shall perish and never return, even if victory is achieved?"

Silence fell, unbroken save by the chirping of a heedless bird. Elanor searched each face calmly, coming at length to linger on Glorfindel. He felt his stomach clench as he saw the bitterness in her eyes, buried beneath her collected facade. Legolas was gazing at the grass, and Elladan and Elrohir were not afforded a clear view of their sister's face. But Glorfindel read the signs and felt his heart sink for them. She concealed it well, but the previous weeks had exacted a heavy toll on this woman. If her inconsolable weeping the day before had not been enough, this would have convinced him. Whether her anger was directed towards him, he did not know, and in that moment it mattered little. She spoke their fates with calm detachment, and would farewell them bravely—but she would weep at their going.

And this time, none would remain behind to share her burden.

"Yes, Elanor; you have put it most aptly," replied Elrohir, dryly. His movements belied him though, for he clutched at her hand as if it meant more to him than his own.

* * *

Elanor bit back a scream of frustration.

She knew she ought to have expected it, ought to have known that the tale would continue as planned. Yet it was poor consolation as she considered those whom she cared for riding off towards Mordor.

 _Denethor's death was expected; and, perhaps, it is better for all concerned. Faramir will live. But Boromir? Why has he not returned to the city? Surely it does not take this long to walk from Parth Galen to Minas Tirith?_

 _Perhaps the book must always reassert itself, and he has died despite—_

 _No, that can't be. It accepted Glorfindel joining the Fellowship, and Boromir's survival initially. Something else must've happened… something I didn't think of… or is it possible he was just delayed? Goodness, this is too complicated for me to keep track of!_

And then there was the matter of the final, coming battle, resting upon the shoulders of Sam and Gimli as they journeyed through Mordor. Were the pair to fail, all would be lost. There was a distinct possibility that her friends might still perish regardless, but were the Ring to reach Sauron's hand, Elanor would also be doomed.

 _Doomed to die in a world that isn't even my own!_

She wanted to allow her lungs to release their full fury upon the world. She wanted to kick and flail like a child having a tantrum. And she would have done so, were it not for the pressure of Elrohir's fingers on hers—and the look of profound understanding and pity in Glorfindel's blue eyes.

She took a deep breath and forced the words out with all the composure she possessed.

"Well, I suppose we may only hope and pray."

Elrohir's grip was like a vice, and Elanor dropped her eyes to avoid the gazes of the others. It was truth, and all save Legolas knew that the original tale proclaimed victory for the Free Peoples.

 _Eru, let it be!_

Elladan then tactfully inquired after Lady Éowyn, steering mercifully clear of Elanor's recollections of the battle. Glorfindel had undoubtedly related the extremity of her breakdown to the twins, and none questioned her. They spoke of several things, lingering upon each but briefly and all failing rather miserably at their attempt at cheerfulness. What had started as a merry gathering swiftly lost momentum as Elanor's spirits plunged lower.

Legolas joined in as the conversation turned to Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the first time he had spoken since their arrival.

"That is a fair lord and a great captain of men," said he. "If Gondor has such men still in these days of fading, great must have been its glory in the days of its rising."

"The house of Edain from which the men of Númenor are descendant were a proud and noble line," said Glorfindel, quietly. "Imrahil is as much akin to them as any in this age."

"It is long since the people of Nimrodel left the woodlands of Lórien, and yet still one may see that not all sailed from Amroth's haven west over the water," mused Legolas.

"Yes, the people of Dol Amroth have Elvish heritage, don't they?" Elanor inquired mechanically, hoping to disguise the frustration and hopelessness which nestled in the pit of her stomach.

"So it is said," nodded Legolas. "Yet, as Prince Imrahil spoke, never has one of the fair folk been seen there for years beyond count. The Firstborn of Ilúvatar are rare to be seen in these days. Many have watched askance as we passed, and never so sharply as when four pass in company."

Elanor forced a thin-lipped smile. "I can imagine; women appear to be equally scarce in Minas Tirith."

"Lord Aragorn said the people were evacuated," said Elladan, rubbing his chin absently. "And 'tis just as well."

Legolas nodded mutely. There was no need to speak of the destruction which lay many levels below. Elanor was relieved that the remnants of the carnage had not wafted skywards. Her garishly vivid memories were poignant enough.

After a little more half-hearted conversation, Elrohir rose and drew Elanor to her feet. Her heart sunk. Someone had slipped the news to her during their chatter that the army departed early the following morning; too early for any to ride through the city and farewell the forlorn woman at the Houses of Healing.

 _Which means this is goodbye…_

Wordlessly, Elrohir kissed her hand. Then his face hardened and he strode past the entrance to the gardens without a second look. Elladan stood before her then, though he bore a sad smile as he farewelled her with as little ceremony as his brother.

When the twins had gone, Legolas squeezed her shoulder with a gentle hand.

"Heed them not, Elanor," he said. "I have ridden for many days at their sides, and I know the sons of Elrond well. They love you well, and cannot bear to bid you goodbye so often. 'Tis easier this way."

Feeling worn and hurt, Elanor nodded. She too had grown exhausted with the tearful goodbyes. Elladan and Elrohir's unspoken love was enough.

"I know."

Legolas glanced at Glorfindel then, who stood nearby with a pained expression on his countenance. Before Elanor could ask any questions, Legolas repeated the gesture of her foster-brothers and departed after them. Expecting Glorfindel to farewell her with equal haste, Elanor managed a watery smile.

"I feel as if we have seen this scene played out many times before," she managed, with a short laugh.

Glorfindel did not smile. Instead, he swallowed slowly, and knitted his fingers together. Elanor watched in bewilderment as the golden-haired Elf struggled with some internal quandary. After half a moment he seemed to come to some decision. His eyes moved from the ground at his feet to meet Elanor's.

"May I speak with you, Elanor?"

She raised an eyebrow in an attempt at playfulness. "Are you not already speaking with me?"

This seemed to bring him further anguish, for he turned and flopped upon the bench nearby. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his face in his hands. With a growing sense of alarm, Elanor hurried to sit beside him. She reached out and pulled one hand away from his face.

"Glorfindel, is everything all right?"

One blue eye surveyed her frankly. Then its twin was unveiled as he removed his other hand. Tentatively, he reached out and rested it upon Elanor's cheek.

She jumped at the unexpected touch, and he snatched his hand away as if she had burned him.

"Forgive me—" he gasped, his voice full of unbearable pain. In a flash he was halfway across the lawn, nearing the gate.

"Glorfindel! Wait, please!" Elanor cried, snatching up her skirts and racing after him.

 _What on earth is going on with him lately?!_

He slowed to a halt, though he did not face her. Elanor moved so she stood directly in front of him, searching his face in an effort to discern what troubled him. The forget-me-not blue eyes— _Tim… bluer than Tim's…_ —stared back, full of an unintelligible mixture of emotions.

 _This is what war does…_

"Glorfindel," she repeated, "I am sorry. You merely startled me. Please, tell me what's wrong."

The Elf-lord laughed. It was not the merry, hearty sound she had known in Rivendell, but bitter and dry.

"You do not see," he replied.

Elanor almost snorted in frustration. "No, Glorfindel, I do not; won't you be honest with me?"

"You have asked it of me, so I shall," he said, before switching to Sindarin: "Gi melin, Elanor Ravenscroft."

 _He remembers my real name… he said he loves me, and he remembers my real name…_

 _Glorfindel._

 _Glorfindel loves me._

 _Elanor Ravenscroft…_

 _Glorfindel._

 _Glorfindel remembered my name._

 _He knows._

 _And he loves me._

A multitude of thoughts rushed into Elanor's mind as she stared up at the Elf, absolutely dumbstruck. She had never regarded the Noldorin Elf-lord as a potential lover, except as a girlish joke. It was the kind of joke she would have laughed over with Georgia and swift forgotten.

 _Georgia…_

Glorfindel was a High Elf, extremely powerful, and immortal. She was a human, regarded as little more than common due to her unknown heritage. He was immaculately formed, almost too handsome to believe, whereas she sat comfortably in the "fairly pretty" zone. He was a friend, one of the few people she trusted with her past. Someone who had spent time with her in playful, brotherly banter.

Were this an American romantic-comedy movie, Elanor knew she would plead the friend-zone and tell Glorfindel she couldn't possibly think of him _"that way"._ Then, she would come to regret her decision, only to discover that he had found another to love.

And yet, it took but a moment for Elanor to remove Glorfindel from beneath the banner she had created: " _Benevolent brother, very kind and likes to tease a lot. Deep in the friend-zone, probably a level 9. Substitute for the 'gay best friend' figure. Totally out of my league."_ In the four seconds of silence which fell between them, she considered his noble attributes. He was lovely and good; gentlemanly and thoughtful, courteous almost to a fault, and generous. From that first meeting she had liked him, when he had kissed her gently upon the forehead and bid her go towards happiness.

It was as if scales fell from her eyes, for she saw now in all of his kind gestures a hint of something more. The unspoken emotion in his gaze, his gentleness, the time he had spent with her, the affectionate touches… these were not commonplace. He had been silently telling her of his love for weeks, and she had been blind to it. Glorfindel was everything she had admired in Tim—and, she realised, more.

In that moment, she knew without doubt that the "friend-zone" was complete and utter rubbish.

Then she laughed and fell forward against him.

She pressed her forehead against his chest, her hands brushing the soft weave of his tunic. As soon as she had entered his embrace his arms slipped about her waist and shoulders, drawing her closer. She felt his warm breath on her hair, and drank in the smell of him; pine trees, spearmint and fresh mountain air. It was enough to make her giddy.

He grasped her arms then, pushing her a little away from himself so he could see glance down at her face. Elanor grinned stupidly up at him, her heart thudding and a bewildering feeling of elation brushing away the cobwebs of fear and despair.

 _Glorfindel loves me!_

"Ci velethril nîn, Elanor," he smiled, reaching up to brush her cheek with his thumb.

"And you are mine."

Glorfindel laughed—and it was his old laugh, the one she liked to hear so much.

With perfect gentleness, he cupped her chin and kissed her. His touch on her face was gentle, and for an indeterminable period of time Elanor was utterly lost in the taste and feel of his lips on hers. He kissed her thoroughly, igniting her senses and making her knees feel weaker by the moment.

Then he drew back, brushing her mouth with his.

"I love you," he breathed, bestowing a feather-light kiss upon her forehead. "I love you." He moved down to her nose, and kissed both cheeks before returning to her mouth. "I love you."

Elanor leaned closer to him, savouring the taste of his lips before he withdrew once more. He grasped her waist then, pulling her against him whilst he looked down at her face. One hand remained beneath her chin, and as he smiled his fingers traced the line of her cheek and lips.

Elanor grinned as if her face had never known any other expression. "I'm afraid you are very forward, my lord."

"That I am, lady," replied he, sounding remarkably cheerful despite the accusation. "War does strange things to one. I have lived many lifetimes upon this earth, and yet I could not follow your foster-kin to battle had I not confessed my love to you, Ellie."

 _He's… perfect._

She laughed, unable to manage her Middle-Earth-speak in that moment. "I can't even begin to describe how I feel right now."

Shifting so she was tucked against his side, Glorfindel gestured towards the bench upon which they had sat but moments before. Sitting down, he drew her beside him and planted a kiss on her hair.

"You can try."

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **Ci velethril nîn - "You are my love"  
** **Gi melin - "I love you"**

* * *

 **I feel like a child that's been handed a new toy! Hehe. Except this one is boat-shaped, has "Elanor-Glorfindel" written on it... and has just sailed. ;)**

 **I hoped that by shifting perspectives a few times, I'd be able to give a more holistic picture of what was going on; how Glorfindel's behaviour reads to Legolas vs. to Elanor, how Glorfindel looked at Elanor, and how she misinterpreted him (and has the entire time).**

 **For anyone who was planning to review and say, "WHAT ABOUT EÄRENDUR?" don't panic! I will be sure to address loose ends such as this and tie them up nice and securely in the next chapter. My main priority with this one was being true to Glorfindel's character as I perceived it: as Legolas kind of said, Glorfindel is not a "beat around the bush" kind of guy. He's straightforward. It's the way of the Elves, and even as an individual he's not liable to sit around mooning over Elanor. It's war, he's forthright, and he says something straight up. He doesn't want to leave the following morning without saying something to this woman!**

 **With Elanor's almost-immediate capitulation to her feelings for him... This was something I tried to portray as it was. I have mixed thoughts on the friend-zone. I think it both does and doesn't exist. It's not irrevocable, though you can put some guys in a friend-zone-like state. But the truth is, Elanor, myself, and a lot of women I have talked to (not claiming it for everyone, just a lot from my understanding of things) would receive Glorfindel's advances even though he was previously only a friend to them. She thought him attractive, but had reconciled herself to just being friends. Therefore, when she found out he liked her, the platonic affection she had for him was easily transferred to something more. :)**

 **Another thing I wanted to address was the human-Elf pairing. I know that some people will probably come up to me and say, "This is non-canon (I am aware), this is unlikely, and Glorfindel would never love a human!" At first, yeah, I thought as much. But a friend drew my attention to several things. Firstly, there are a fair amount of mentions of human-Elf relationships in the Tolkienverse (Idril-Tuor, Luthien-Beren and Aragorn-Arwen are only about half, if my memory serves me correctly). Secondly, Glorfindel isn't your average Elf. Yeah, he was high-born, but he's been sent back from the dead, been serving an Elf who is his inferior (I love Elrond but it's true; Glorfy is more powerful) and has obviously had a pretty full-on/traumatic life. He's had time to deal with stuff, but this is very different to if Elanor appeared in Glorfindel's storyline back in Gondolin. Now, he's been scolded by Mandos, and sent back to live out the will of the Valar and ensure Arda survives.**

 **Now take Elanor. She isn't an ordinary human. She may not have a claim to lineage, but she's better educated than all but a handful in Middle Earth, she picks up languages fast due to her education, she has a foreknowledge of events, and she's had braces so her teeth are on point. ;) Even though some (like Denethor) might have looked at her and brushed her aside because she wasn't from a noble house. But Elanor is definitely not your average "noblewoman".**

 **Glorfindel now has no obligations except serving Elrond (who is shortly to depart). He's not King Turgon's advisor/knight/etc., he's not obliged to behave like Legolas would be (can you _imagine_ Thranduil's reaction of he and Elanor had a thing?!) and so who is going to scold him for marrying a human? No one who's going to be hanging around in Arda, that's who!**

 **I don't want to rant on too much more, because I have some internal dialoguing and chatting for Elanor to do with a number of other people (that's a surprise!) and I want a lot of this to come up naturally as part of the story progression. But I thought I'd just toss some stuff out here, to ensure that people who were going to ask about these specific things don't need to. Reviews, are, of course, still welcome on other matters, or if you just want to discuss stuff. :)**

 **Ps. even if you didn't like it, I'd still ship Elanor-Glorfindel anyway. xD**

 **Finwe. :D**


	33. Lovesickness, and other ailments

**Chapter 33 - Lovesickness and other ailments**

* * *

Elanor yanked the bedsheets around her body and exhaled sharply. Rolling over for what felt like the millionth time, she buried her face in the pillow and attempted to find a more comfortable resting place. Eyes pinched shut, she forced herself to breath regularly and steadied her thoughts—to no avail.

With a sigh which was more like a groan, she kicked off the sheet and sat upon the edge of the mattress.

The curtains at the window were open, and the stars glinted faintly in the heavens. It was the middle of the night, and Elanor was yet to enter the unconscious bliss of sleep. Her mind was irrepressibly busy, caught in the bittersweet agony of wanting to dwell on thoughts of the day and desperately needing rest.

 _Mind you_ , she smiled slightly, _not all the thoughts are unpleasant._

It seemed as if a battle raged within; gut-wrenching worry for those who rode to war, and the all-encompassing bliss of knowing that she loved Glorfindel and those feelings were returned. Woven throughout this were various other thoughts which scattered in every imaginable direction, leaving her mind buzzing as if she'd had several short macchiatos in sequence.

 _He loves me… he's riding to battle tomorrow and he could die, but he loves me… and I love him… gosh, so much has happened, and so much can still happen! Mum and dad and Georgia… and Tim… what would they all think now? Would he be disappointed in me? How could I… but it's been what, six months? Wouldn't you… gosh, six months here… and it's been battle after battle the whole time. So much danger, so much death… and Glorfindel always in the middle, always at risk. What would I do now, if he were to… he loves me! I can't believe… how do I even begin to explain this whole quandary… to tell Legolas and Aragorn and the twins… Elrond… and Eärendur!_

Elanor stopped short.

Yesterday had hurried past in an utter blur; her brief hours with Glorfindel within the gardens had been overshadowed by a sense of imminence breathing down her collar. They had spoken of many things, and yet after she had kissed him tearfully goodbye she realised there were a hundred others she had wanted to bring up.

 _And probably Eärendur should've been fairly high on the list…_

She had barely spared a second's thought for the young Dúnedain Ranger who had confessed his feelings for her at Dunharrow. It caused her no small amount of guilt that she had not even inquired after him. Legolas had informed her of Halbarad's death, but she had been so preoccupied with other things that it had not occurred to her to consider Eärendur's fate. Dunharrow felt like weeks ago, rather than just days. The battle on the Pelennor Fields was still jarringly real, but this collection of other thoughts and feelings, at the very least, served to crowd out her horrific visions of dead men and beasts.

Standing, Elanor moved to the window. Darkness blotted out her already-limited view of the garden, but she scarcely noticed.

 _He loves me_ , came the perpetual chant, like a sweet song of triumph.

 _It's not like I asked for his love. He's like, the Legolas of the books… the handsome one, the skilled one, and for some reason he picked me. I never was into the Legolas… well, this Legolas is awesome… but when the other girls were crushing on him, I was way more of an Aragorn person. Except that would be like stealing my sister's guy, now. No, not Aragorn. Still, I never would've even expected Glorfindel to… and I can't get why…_

She leaned against the windowsill, one hand cradling her chin.

 _Why does he love me?_

 _You never asked him._

 _But I will—next time._

 _If there is a next time…_

 _Do you have to ruin every thought?_

 _Face it, it's a distinct possibility._

 _Yeah, but I'd rather not dwell on that possibility all the time. I love him, but I also love Legolas and the twins, and I would hate to see any of them die. Aragorn, too; even just for Arwen's sake! Or Éomer. Éowyn could not bear to lose her brother as well. There's so much possibility for disaster._

 _Better pray Eru spares them then._

 _You think that'll work?_

 _It's gotten you this far._

That was true. She had been carried along in a rush of good fortune. Her very survival on the battlefield was miraculous—though after the positive results which stemmed from her petitions to Eru, she was more inclined to think it the God's mercy. Had even one thing gone awry, had Fundanár spooked and she gone down…

She shuddered as the death-cries of the Rohirrim added themselves to her internal cacophony.

 _Glorfindel…_

So many questions had gone unanswered, chief amongst them the unspoken difficulty of Elanor's mortality. She knew enough of the Elves to understand that Glorfindel's love for a human was at once both beautiful and agonising. The thought that he would outlive her and be forced to watch her age and die was one she had not considered until she watched his proud form retreating from the gardens the day before. It was as if the full impact of his confession walloped her like a mallet; he could give her nothing more precious than his love.

Her stomach felt warm at the thought.

It had been so long since she had been held by a lover that Elanor found herself rendered helpless by Glorfindel's gentle caresses. They had walked and talked in the garden as long as time permitted, his arm ever about her waist or holding her hand. The extended proximity with him had left her flushed and smiling—something she had not felt since…

She sighed heavily.

Thinking on Tim at this time was unavoidable. She had reconciled herself to the fact that her childhood sweetheart was irrevocably lost to her, but it did nothing to lessen the pain. They had not parted on poor terms, but very much in love with one another. It was still difficult to acknowledge that they were no longer together.

 _It's like I've had to… break up with him mentally. Tell myself we'd split till I no longer automatically referred to him as my boyfriend. And Glorfindel is… he's great, but Tim was too. I can't forget him. I won't forget him._

 _That's all well and good—but you're here now. This is your new world, your new life. Would you give up Glorfindel for the sake of living with Tim's memory?_ came a startling clear thought.

 _No._

 _Good. He may be a book character, but Glorfindel is a gem. You'd be completely out of your mind not to devote yourself to him._

Elanor smiled at that, the image of the golden-haired Elf drifting before her eyes. He was wholly delightful, and it had taken far too long for her to realise it. Memories of Tim had fended off romantic thoughts at first, followed by an unshakable premonition that he regarded her as a sister. It was like being doused in icy water to be reminded of how she had spoken to him in a way that convinced him likewise—and how very wrong she had been.

 _Thank Eru he said something anyway!_

A gust of wind swept through her open window, cutting through Elanor's nightgown and causing her arms to erupt in goosebumps. Shivering, she tugged the shutters closed and returned to her bed. The bedding was in a horrible tangle, but she climbed beneath it regardless. Curling up on her left side, Elanor studied the opposite wall in the dim light. She felt glaringly awake, and knew there was little hope of sleep for the rest of the night.

Meanwhile, the wind surged about the Houses of Healing. It was the same wind which blew through the city and the plains below, ruffling the banner of the Prince of Dol Amroth and the cloaks of the Guard of the Citadel. It rushed downwards, shrieking through archways and along cobblestoned streets until it reached the wreckage of the main gate. Out it swept, flinging itself at the tents of the soldiers encampment with fiendish delight. It spared none, and happily ruffled the tent of a golden-haired Elf along with the others.

This particular Elf lay sleepless upon his pallet. His face was smooth and solemn as he stared upwards at the ceiling; his eyes, however, sparkled despite the gloom. Within them one might observe the deep currents of grief and weariness. Yet overwhelming both of these was a profound and inexplicable joy. As he lay there, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards slightly. His thoughts dwelt upon a woman far above, also struggling in search of slumber in a room in the Houses of Healing.

* * *

As dawn broke over the city, Elanor rose from her bed. Her eyes were shadow-rimmed but bright, and her stomach was still all aflutter. She could not disregard the knowledge that her friends, foster-brothers and lover were riding to battle that morning; neither could she prevent the seeping warmth and delightful restlessness caused by thoughts of said lover. The joy which Glorfindel's confession had caused made her feel like a girl, full of childish excitement, and had not dissipated despite a sleepless night.

 _Eru, let him come back!_

Unwilling to wake the servants at such an uncivilised hour, Elanor began the laborious task of fastening her own garments and donning a dress provided by Ioreth; this one was deepest blue, almost black, but trimmed with silver. The contrasting colours resonated with her mood.

Pulling her hair back, Elanor plaited it deftly and fastened it with a black ribbon. After pulling on her shoes, she silently quitted her room and crept to the edge of the gardens, overlooking the plains below.

She could see the men beginning to mobilise, the regular soldiers gathering themselves into a semblance of order. The breeze buffeted her as she squinted down upon them, chilling her despite the generous layers of clothing and making her wish for the cloak she had forgotten.

The Houses were far too high to distinguish any singular figures, but Elanor could observe a small detachment near the head of the column. Somewhere down there was Glorfindel, not to mention the collection of others who were dear to her heart.

Elanor was determined she would not cry.

It took far too long for her liking; the sun had made it's bold entrance by the entire army was assembled and ready to march. As they began to gather themselves for this desperate venture, Elanor heard footsteps approaching from behind and turned hurriedly. Expecting to see a stern Ioreth, she was delighted to discover Merry's childlike form.

"Lady Elanor; I did not expect you to be here," he said, a wistful smile upon his face.

"Nor I you, Merry," she replied, returning to her view of the scene below. Merry came to stand at her right elbow, his hands grasping the lip of the wall to gain a better vantage point.

For some minutes they stood in mutually accepted silence, watching the shifting mass of men. The sun glinted upon their armour, and the six-thousand warriors were an impressive sight to behold.

 _And yet absolutely nothing to rival the power of Sauron…_

At length a horn sounded, echoing proudly across the fields and through Minas Tirith. Elanor gripped the wall with white hands as several horns answered the first.

Then they began to march.

Biting her lip, Elanor turned away. What would be, would be, and she could change nothing. Still, the sight of the departing army made her want to weep.

 _How hopeless a cause must it seem to those men! For they don't even have the brief measure of hope that I have… Eru, protect them!_

Refusing to allow herself the comfort of tears, Elanor paused and turned. Merry still lingered at the wall, and she knew that he felt fear and despair no less keenly than herself. He had endured the same torment as Éowyn, and in her scattered state she had forgotten him as shamefully as Eärendur. Berating herself for her negligence of the young hobbit, Elanor moved to stand beside him. He did not look at her, his eyes fixated upon the departing forces.

"Merry?" she said, softly.

The hobbit was silent for a moment, before his liquid brown eyes turned to her face.

"Pippin went with them," said Merry, in a voice just as low. His shoulders shook slightly. "I have seen more than my share of battle, but it is just too bad to see him scurrying off on an adventure while I'm stuck here! We've been separated far too long; I worry about him, you know. He's always been far too inclined towards mischief. And now… now he's a member of the Steward's guard, and riding to war with the rest of them. They wouldn't let me go; I asked them, but they said I ought to rest. I feel as if I'm missing an arm or a leg, with Pip away. And yet—goodness, I was glad not to go after all. It's all such a tangle, Lady Elanor. It's awful cowardice, but I was half-relieved that Gandalf said no!"

Elanor could've kicked herself for abandoning him so badly. Unable to find words, she gently placed one hand upon his shoulder. Struggling to think of something to say, she sighed.

"I'm very sorry, Merry."

"It is not your fault," he replied. "You have many loved ones risking themselves too, after all."

 _And how beloved you do not even begin to imagine…_

"Yes… do not call yourself a coward, Merry; you fought bravely, and were far more the hero than I. Why, you aided Lady Éowyn in slaying the Witch-king! All I did was remain on the fringe, and stayed safely out of harm's way. You are very courageous, Merry."

Merry's face remained impassive, and his words were dispirited. "I suppose so."

Seeing that he continued to stare longingly at the armies below, Elanor squeezed his shoulder and braved frank speech.

"Come on; there's no use looking after them like that. It shan't bring them back, and you'll only make yourself more miserable. I'm very hungry. Will you come with me to find breakfast? And then you might visit Lady Éowyn with me. I'm sure she'd be happy to see you."

It was an attempt to convince herself as much as Merry, and Elanor hoped it was more helpful to the hobbit. The words sounded awfully hollow to her own ears.

Merry received the speech in silence, but afterwards he turned to her and smiled slightly.

"I believe you understand very well, Lady Elanor."

"It is a difficult time for all of us."

"Still," the hobbit said, his eyes showing traces of their old sparkle, "there's no point in missing breakfast just because there's a war on." He held out a hand for Elanor to grasp. The sweet and unassuming gesture caused a lump to form in her throat, so she nodded mutely and took it.

Hand in hand, the woman and hobbit passed through the gardens and went indoors in search of their morning meal.

* * *

The two days following passed with excruciating slowness for Elanor. She attempted to busy herself as much as possible, spending time by Éowyn's bedside or in conversation with Merry. Both were pleasant companions, but pervading all the pleasant interactions was the unvoiced fear of what might befall their companions. It lingered like an unpleasant aroma, tainting otherwise-enjoyable activities.

Over the city of Gondor doubt and great dread hung like a cloud. Fair weather and clear sun seemed but a mockery to men whose days held little hope, and who looked each morning for news of doom. Their lord was dead and burned, dead lay the King of Rohan in their citadel, and the new king that had come to them in the night was gone again to a war with powers too dark and terrible for any might or valour to conquer. And no news came. After the host left Morgul Vale and took the northward road beneath the shadow of the mountains no messenger had returned nor any rumour of what was passing in the brooding East. The lack of information set Elanor's teeth on edge; added to this was her bewilderment over Boromir's fate, and an inability to do anything without the patronage of the high-ranking men of her acquaintance.

 _I wouldn't say that Middle Earth is horribly sexist… but to be a man right now would be awesome…_

On the morning of the 20th of March, Elanor dressed once more with the aid of the serving women and made her way to Éowyn's room, where she had been accustomed to breakfasting. As she was bidden to enter, she saw her friend had quitted the bed and stood at the centre of a cluster of extremely distressed maids.

"Éowyn! You are supposed to rest for another week yet!" cried Elanor, seeing that the woman had brooked no refusal and left the serving women at a complete loss of how to proceed.

"I am healed," she said, "healed at least in body, save my left arm only, and that is at ease. I must find some occupation, Elanor, or I shall grow ill once more!"

 _This should not surprise you…_

Elanor shrugged internally. "Come and speak with the Warden, at least. He shall advise you."

This appeared to calm the servants somewhat, for they continued to do as Éowyn had asked, providing her with raiment and helping secure her arm comfortably. After a few moments she was suitably dressed, and Elanor smiled at the other women.

"Thankyou," she said, taking Éowyn's uninjured arm and leading her outwards.

Elanor had spoken with the Warden several times, and found him to be a pleasant individual. He was easy to discover, and his harried face was stricken with amazement to see the Rohirric woman dressed and stirring abroad.

"Sir," she said, after Elanor had explained a little, "I am in great unrest, and I cannot lie longer in sloth."

"Lady," he answered, "you are not yet healed, and I was commanded to tend you with especial care. You should not have risen from your bed for seven days yet, or so I was bidden. I beg you to go back."

"As I have spoken to Lady Elanor, I am well enough. To be confined to my bed any longer shall do me more harm than good. Are there no tidings of war? The women can tell me nothing."

"There are no tidings," said the Warden, "save that the Lords have ridden to Morgul Vale; and men say that the new captain out of the North is their chief. A great lord is that, and a healer; and it is a thing passing strange to me that the healing hand should also wield the sword. It is not thus in Gondor now, though once it was so, if old tales be true. But for long years we healers have only sought to patch the rents made by the men of swords. Though we should still have enough to do without them: the world is full enough of hurts and mischances without wars to multiply them."

"It needs but one foe to breed a war, not two, Master Warden," answered Éowyn. "And those who have not swords can still die upon them. Would you have the folk of Gondor gather you herbs only, when the Dark Lord gathers armies? And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter."

The Warden looked at her. Tall she stood there, her eyes bright in her white face, her right hand clenched as she turned and gazed out of his window that opened to the East. He sighed and shook his head. After a pause she turned to him again. Elanor felt profoundly sorry for him; whenever she had spoken to him before, he had worn a similar expression of exhaustion and harassment. It had half put her of a mind to offer her aid, but she had swiftly dismissed the notion; she did not feel equal to dealing with those injured in battle. Her stomach had never been strong enough to view even the least of wounds.

Still, she felt as if she were more of a hinderance within the hospital than a help, as she was not in the least in need of care. Instead, she took up a room and the time of the staff. She would have begged leave to be quartered elsewhere, save she knew no one and did not want to leave Merry and Éowyn.

After a moment, the latter spoke again.

"Is there no deed to do?" Éowyn said. "Who commands in this City?"

"I do not rightly know," the Warden answered. "Such things are not my care. There is a marshal over the Riders of Rohan; and the Lord Húrin, I am told, commands the men of Gondor. But the Lord Faramir is by right the Steward of the City."

"Where can I find him?"

"In this house, lady. He was sorely hurt, but is now set again on the way to health. But I do not know—"

"Will you not bring me to him? Then you will know."

Elanor bit back a protest. She was sorely tempted to refute Éowyn's demands to save the Warden a great deal of trouble. Yet something silenced her, for she knew that her friend was about to meet her future husband. Still rather amazed at Éowyn's boldness, she followed the Warden through various corridors until they emerged into a secluded part of the gardens. She had never ventured to this quarter, which explained how she had not met Lord Faramir thus far.

 _I wonder what he will be like in real life…_

After a moment, they spied a tall man with dark hair walking upon the grass. At the Warden's call he turned, and caught sight of the two women who followed him.

"My lord," said the Warden, "here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, and with her Lady Elanor. Both rode with the king, and Lady Éowyn was sorely hurt, and dwells now in my keeping. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak to the Steward of the City."

"Do not misunderstand him, lord," said Éowyn. "It is not lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle still goes on."

At a sign from Faramir, the Warden bowed and departed. The man surveyed them both, scanning Elanor briefly before resting upon her friend.

"What would you have me do, lady?" said Faramir. "I also am a prisoner of the healers." He looked at her, and knowing from the books that he was a man whom pity deeply stirred, Elanor could see that Éowyn's loveliness amid her grief would pierce his heart. She could see the grave tenderness in his eyes; yet Éowyn, bred among men of war, could hardly fail to see that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark would outmatch in battle.

"What do you wish?" he said again. "If it lies in my power, I will do it."

"I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go," she said; but though her words were still proud, Elanor saw her falter slightly.

 _She will not wish Faramir, both stern and gentle, to think her like a wayward child…_

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," answered Faramir. "Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City. But had I done so, I should still listen to his counsel, and should not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."

 _So he also thinks Boromir's dead… I wonder what's happened to him…_

"But I do not desire healing," she Éowyn, her voice firm and cool. "I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace."

"It is too late, lady, to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength," said Faramir. "But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the Healer commanded. You and I, we must endure with patience the hours of waiting."

Elanor watched the woman to her right, brow furrowed with concern. Éowyn had lightened somewhat since Elanor had met her, but there was still a long way to go.

Éowyn did not answer, but as Faramir looked at her it seemed to Elanor that something in her softened, as though a bitter frost were yielding at the first faint presage of spring. A tear sprang in her eye and fell down her cheek, like a glistening rain-drop. Her proud head drooped a little. Then quietly, more as if speaking to herself than to him: "But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet," she said. "And my window does not look eastward." Her voice was now that of a maiden

young and sad.

Faramir smiled, though his heart was filled with pity. "Your window does not look eastward?" he said. "That can be amended. In this I will command the Warden. If you will stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will; and you shall look east, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, and also looking east. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

Then she raised her head and looked him in the eyes again; and a colour came in her pale face. "How should I ease your care, my lord?" she said. "And I do not desire the speech of living men."

"Would you have my plain answer?" he said.

"I would."

Elanor glanced downwards, feeling as if she were an intruder in this moment.

"Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful. In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flower nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely, and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the Sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."

"Alas, not me, lord!" she said. "Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. Lady Elanor is more kindly than I. But I thank you for this at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City." And she did him a curtsey and turned back towards the house.

Wondering what to do, Elanor also curtseyed and made to follow her.

"Wait," said Faramir, in a soft voice. Elanor paused, for Éowyn did not seem to hear the man. Hoping he had truly addressed her, she turned to face him.

"Yes, my lord?"

The man looking down at her was so akin to Boromir that she could scarcely believe they were not twins. Their features were very similar, yet there was something softer in Faramir's face which appealed to her more than his elder brother.

"Are you also of Rohan, Lady Elanor?" he inquired, his tone courteous, though his eyes strayed in the direction in which Éowyn had disappeared.

"No, my lord; I come from the North, from Rivendell, the House of Elrond," she replied, lowering her gaze and wondering whether to mention Boromir.

"Imladris!" he cried. "Pray tell me, lady; were you at all acquainted with my brother, Boromir?"

 _Well that solves that problem…_

"Indeed I was, my lord. I spent some measure of time in Lord Boromir's company."

"And are you at all acquainted with his fate, Lady Elanor?"

"I am afraid I am not," she replied, frowning slightly. "One of his other companions said that he departed Parth Galen for Minas Tirith some weeks before, and I know nothing else of what might have befallen him."

"Alas, that you know no more!"

Elanor glanced up then, seeing the fine lines wrought upon the noble man's features. It was so like speaking to Boromir that it was uncanny; save that Faramir's pride was tempered by gentle wisdom, and it pleased her to see that he was so evidently good. Éowyn was to have an excellent husband.

 _And you shall have Glorfindel! Gosh, I never even thought we might get married!_

"I am sorry I am so ill informed," Elanor said. This was accompanied by a barely-suppressed smile, for the notion of wedding the tall Elf was something both bewildering and wonderful.

"Do not apologise, lady, for their is naught that you could do to amend the situation," answered Faramir, smiling slightly at her flushed cheeks. "You may do me one service, however; what may you tell me of the White Lady of Rohan?"

Elanor raised an eyebrow slightly, not anticipating such a question.

"Lady Éowyn, sir?"

"Yes, my lady. Come; let us walk together, and you may tell me aught that you know. For the Warden has told me that you rode with the King, and with the Lady Éowyn at the end."

"Certainly, my lord," Elanor smiled, glad to appease him in some way, and delighted to be able to proclaim the virtues of her friend.

Faramir smiled in return, and offered her his arm. Elanor took it, and they proceeded down a shaded path. He asked her many questions, and though she felt extremely tired and was growing hungry, the distraction was welcome. Everything about Faramir's manner was polite and gentle, and he never made her feel as if he were demanding information; nor did he treat her as a woman to be looked down upon. He seemed happy to discuss Éowyn and Éowyn alone, mercifully disregarding those subjects which caused a stab of worry to pierce Elanor's stomach.

By the sun had reached it's zenith, she was unbearably hungry, and Faramir had exhausted all of his questions concerning the sister of Éomer. Acutely conscious that she had missed breakfast, Elanor could have wept with relief as the Steward of Gondor led her to a table set up beneath a tree.

Faramir smiled and gestured to the meal.

"Will you dine with me, Lady Elanor? For I have neglected you shamefully, speaking only of Lady Éowyn. Let me make amends for my rudeness, in entertaining you throughout the noon meal."

"I would be delighted, Lord Faramir," she replied, taking the seat he offered her. "It has been many months since I shared a meal with a son of Denethor."

"Ah yes," Faramir smiled wryly, "I had quite disregarded your acquaintance with my brother. I must beg pardon once more."

Elanor grinned down at the dish of cherry tomatoes as they began to eat. "Not at all, my lord."

"Pray, tell me of yourself, Lady Elanor. I have heard you hail from Imladris, and that you met Boromir upon your travels. Aside from that, I am utterly ignorant. I beg that you enlighten me," smiled Denethor's younger son, his grey eyes twinkling slightly as he offered the varied dishes to Elanor before he served himself.

She laughed lightly. Faramir was even more kingly and gentlemanlike than David Wenham had appeared. She hoped that she would remain friends with Éowyn, for all seemed on track for her to wed the Steward. He was someone she could see herself being friends with.

"What do you wish to know, my lord?"

Faramir leaned back in his chair and studied her with a half-smile. "I do not desire to appear presumptuous, lady, but it is plain to see that you are no Elf; and yet you dwell amongst the Elves, holding council with their leaders. Oh," he continued, with a laugh, "forgive me. I spoke with Lord Glorfindel of Imladris several days past, when he came to inquire after your health. 'Tis countless years since one of the Eldar entered the White City, yet I could not fail to know when one such individual stood before me."

"Your supposition is quite correct," Elanor laughed, swallowing a mouthful of bread. "He is of the Noldor, and a companion of mine."

 _Companion?_

"Then indeed you have been fortunate, my lady. Few in these times are so blessed."

"I have been most fortunate, indeed," she grinned, thinking to the first time she had spied Boromir through the flowing grass of Cardolan.

 _Lucky I didn't miss him altogether and die in the middle of Eriador!_

"And are your people from the North, Lady Elanor?"

"No, my lord. I hail originally from the south, though not from Gondor; my home is further south even than Dol Amroth, and your other coastal provinces," she said. "It is vastly different to the lands of Middle Earth."

"South of Gondor, you say?" inquired Faramir, raising an eyebrow. "Surely you cannot be from Haradwaith, Lady Elanor, for I hear they are a dark and swarthy race."

"Not Haradwaith; further south even than Harad, upon an island."

"Then you are a great distance from home, my lady."

Elanor smiled as she took up a piece of flavoursome meat. "Indeed, my lord."

"What is the name of your land, Lady Elanor? For I may discover amongst the libraries of Minas Tirith some history of your nation."

"It is called the Queen's Land by my people," she replied, after a pause. It had taken her a moment to recall the lie she had concocted in Rivendell. "It is known by many names, however; in the tongue of my people it is called Australia."

"Australia," frowned Faramir, the word sounding unwieldy in his Gondorian accent. "I shall endeavour to discover news of it, Lady Elanor."

She smiled and waved a dismissive hand. "Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I departed from home some time ago, and have little desire to return. I dwell in Middle-earth, now." _And those words taste… less nasty than I thought they would. Besides, who else can claim they're going to marry an Elf?!_

 _Goodness, I hope he wants to get married!_

"Do not hesitate to ask if you seek information," Faramir said nevertheless, wiping his stubble-framed lips with a linen napkin. "I should be very pleased to oblige you, my lady." He smiled. "You have been most helpful in my search for tales concerning Lady Éowyn."

Elanor could barely contain the delighted grin which threatened to spill across her features.

"I am always pleased to speak of a friend of mine, Lord Faramir."

Faramir smiled and studied her a moment. "I wish I were acquainted with your lands, Lady Elanor. Few mortals in this age are so blessed as to be permitted to dwell amongst the Elves. You are either inordinately lucky, or a something of a wise-woman of your people."

"I am inclined to think it is the former," countered Elanor, with a wry grin.

"Perhaps," Faramir chuckled, "though I would—"

"Lord Faramir!"

The pair seated at the table jumped slightly as a man dressed in the livery of Gondor flew across the lawn towards them.

"Yes, Barhador?"

The man huffed and panted for a moment before he could speak.

"My Lord Faramir—your brother, Lord Boromir—he has returned."

Faramir leapt to his feet, his face alight with surprise.

"Forgive me Lady Elanor, but you must excuse me," he said, sparing a moment to smile and nod at her.

"My lord—the Lady Elanor was also bidden to come with thee," put in Barhador, seeming rather embarrassed to have intruded.

The son of Denethor frowned in confusion, but seemed so desirous to see Boromir that he did not oppose the idea. He offered his arm to Elanor—also extremely bewildered—who gladly took it and followed Barhador out of the gardens.

It was the first time she had wandered outside the Houses of Healing since the day of the battle, yet Faramir set such a pace that she had no time to admire the sights of Gondor. Barhador led them upwards, and fortunately it was only a small distance to the upper levels of the Citadel where Boromir waited for them.

Despite the rush, Elanor found the courtyard outside the Citadel to be just as magnificent as she could have hoped. There was a painful lack of a white tree, but otherwise the courtyard was impressive beyond words. The Citadel loomed large and white above the paved square, the elegant architecture giving it an air of grace despite it's size. Magnifying all was the exquisite view, even more glorious than the landscape which extended from Dunharrow.

As they skirted the Great Hall, Faramir exchanged several brief words with Barhador. Then, the soldier bowed and departed. They proceeded in silence then, Faramir's long legs carrying him swiftly across the marble floor. It was so closely reminiscent of Elanor's scurrying along after Boromir when she had first appeared in Middle-earth that she couldn't restrain a grin. Still, she was at a loss as to why Boromir would request her presence specifically.

 _Surely he'd prefer just his brother when they're reunited… I mean, I wouldn't want a friend of Georgia's coming to see me if I'd been away for ages._

She had no more time to ponder the matter, however, for they had reached the wing of the Citadel which presumably housed the Steward's family. Faramir hesitated before a black door set within the white wall, and turned to Elanor.

"Will you permit me to—"

She nodded emphatically before he had even finished speaking.

"Naturally, Lord Faramir. I shall wait here until you require my presence."

Appearing relieved, the man nodded and entered the room. Elanor allowed her eyes to stray along the corridor, admiring the beautiful marbled floors and snow-white walls. The black and white decor was surprisingly pleasant, though she supposed it would grow tiresome after a certain period.

 _Good thing I didn't fall for—_

The door was thrown abruptly open, and Elanor jerked around to face it. Faramir stood in the doorway, his face grave.

"Will you enter, Lady Elanor?"

With a hesitant smile, Elanor did as he bid, and found herself in a pleasant sitting room. It was full of pleasant light, and tastefully furnished in rich colours that formed a stark contrast with the monotone hallway. In the centre of the room stood Boromir, even more haggard and worn than when Elanor had first encountered him. His travel-worn cloak was now one step above a large rag, and his proud features stern and gaunt with lack of sleep and food.

Nevertheless, he bowed solemnly. "Lady Elanor."

Clasping her skirts, she curtseyed in response. "Lord Boromir."

The elder son of Gondor glanced once to Faramir, who stood nearby in utter confusion. Finally, Boromir sighed and rubbed his chin, upon which a rough beard had begun to form.

"It appears that I have an uncanny knack for collecting lost maidens," he said, a grim smile gracing his features.

Elanor's expression matched Faramir's.

 _Why does he think I want to deal with a lost maiden?_

"Brother, speak plainly," cried Faramir, clearly in anguish and growing impatient with Boromir's peculiar behaviour. "I had presumed you to be dead, and now discover you still live; yet you appear to have endured great pains and troubles, and speak in riddles. Will you not tell the lady of your reasons for summoning her? There is much to attend to, and much I wish to know!"

Boromir chuckled low. "Forgive me, brother; there is much here which I find bewildering myself, and it seems but yesterday I encountered Lady Elanor upon my travels." He turned to her. "I shall detain you no more, my lady, though I believe you may desire to meet this new guest without delay."

Elanor bit her lip to stop her mouth hanging open. Boromir appeared to have lost his wits.

 _Perhaps he has found an Elf upon the road… but he said "maiden" before… what…_

Wordlessly, Boromir moved to another door which led out of the sitting room. Throwing it open, he gestured to someone who waited out of Elanor's line of sight. The figure entered slowly, matted brown hair veiling her features.

"Lady Elanor?" Boromir said, indicating that the new arrival should step forward.

Hearing Elanor's name, the other woman's head jerked up abruptly, her eyes wide with amazement. She was clad in a dirty green dress and her hair was snarled and filthy. Grime smeared her face and she looked frightened and exhausted.

But there was no doubt that it was Georgia.

* * *

 **ULTIMATE PLOT TWIST. :D**

 **So this is something I've been intending to throw in for a long, long time, and was always determined to include. And I've done it. It's not something that I've really seen happening in the "girl dropped in Middle-earth" fics that I've read, but the constant references to Georgia was not without reason.**

 **And now she's in Middle-earth with Elanor.**

 **What do you guys think will happen?**

 **Reviews are (naturally) welcome, and I hope that this chapter meets your expectations. The last one was not entirely satisfactory for me, but I feel slightly better about this one and hope that you all enjoyed it too. :)**

 **Please be honest if you do choose to review; not just concerning the plot itself, but if you notice any mistakes/inaccuracies/poor uses of grammar, please let me know so that I might fix them.**

 **Best wishes, - Finwe.**


	34. The one least expected

**Chapter 34 - The one least expected**

* * *

Elanor sprang forward with a wordless cry, at the same instant as Georgia stumbled towards her. They collided with force, arms clawing one another close with desperate fury that almost carried the younger Ravenscroft girl off her feet.

"Georgia!" Elanor gasped, steadying her sister and squeezing her thin frame as tight as she dared.

"Ellie," sobbed the other, arms moving feverishly across Elanor's back as if to make sure she was genuinely real. "Oh Ellie, what's happening—I can't—Ellie—I think I'm los—"

"Shh," Elanor murmured, the soft reassurance almost drowned out by the thudding of her heart beneath her ribs.

 _Georgia's here. Georgia, here. Georgia._

 _Breathe, Elanor, don't forget to breathe._

 _Georgia's here. How could… Georgia._

 _Breathe!_

 _Georgia…_

 _Elanor, breathe…_

 _Georgia!_

Elanor pushed her sister away until she held her at arm's length.

 _Focus. Now is not the time for hysterics._

"Georgie," she whispered, rubbing the girl's shoulders. "Come on, just relax. Everything's ok. We're among friends."

Georgia's grimy face was now damp and streaky. She was weeping uncontrollably, her hands scrabbling at her face and neck. Hazel eyes were red-rimmed and full of bleary exhaustion and fear.

"C'mon Georgia, it's ok," Elanor repeated, pulling her sister back against herself. Glancing over Georgia's shoulder, she caught the eye of Boromir, who was watching the situation as if he were profoundly glad that he were not the one comforting a weeping maiden.

 _Wouldn't be the first time he's had to do that to a member of my family…_

Faramir stood beside his brother, and as Elanor raised a helpless eyebrow at them the younger of the two seemed to gather his wits. He hurried to a nearby lounge, removed the various items scattered across it, and gestured that Elanor and her sobbing relative might take a seat.

"Thankyou," Elanor breathed, gently pulling Georgia towards it and urging her to sit. She wrapped her arms around the other girl's shoulders as if she were comforting a small child and not her seventeen-year-old sister.

With Georgia's filthy head pressed against her neck, she was able to observe Boromir and Faramir. The younger embraced his brother warmly, and they spoke quietly enough that she could not catch the exact words over Georgia's moaning. At the conclusion of their discussion, Faramir smiled and gripped Boromir's forearm. The latter responded in kind, before departing through one of the doors leading out of the sitting room, tugging his cloak off as he went.

Georgia continued to shake in Elanor's arms. Forcing herself to remain clam, Elanor watched as Faramir engaged in a hasty tidying of the room before tugging on a piece of string which hung near the door. A servant appeared. Faramir issued an inaudible command. The servant disappeared.

 _It's ok. Georgia's here. Georgia. Breathe. She's here, she's ok. You're ok. Don't panic. Georgia's got that covered. Just chill out, Elanor. Breathe. Focus. It's alright._

The servant reappeared. Faramir took the tray of tea which she provided and carried it with surprising deftness to a low table within easy reach of Elanor's left hand. As he placed it silently on the wooden surface, he smiled sympathetically and withdrew through the same door as Boromir.

For long minutes, Elanor held her sister mechanically, occasionally rubbing her arm with absent fingers and whispering some combination of "shhh" and "it's ok".

 _What on earth… what am I going to do… Georgia's here. Georgia. How did…_

 _You'll find out soon enough; she's always had enough words for two people!_

It seemed as if Georgia would soon run out of tears, for she wept passionately for longer than Elanor could have believed possible. When her tears were spent, she contented herself with quivering and dry sobs. As her breaths finally slowed, Elanor prised herself free and gently pushed Georgia to sit up on her own.

She was an absolute mess. Snot now mingled with dirt on her once-pretty face, and the green dress she wore was a sorry sight compared to it's earlier state—even having endured a week's worth of constant wear at the festival. Rubbing her eyes with filthy hands, Georgia exhaled shakily.

Then, for the first time in six months, the sisters simply observed one another.

As baffled as Elanor was, it was like cool water in a desert to see Georgia's face. She drank her in, feeling her blurry mental image renewed in high definition as she noted the dark lashes, brown skin and well-shaped mouth which she had forgotten in their separation. Every freckle was reprinted in her mind, every minor imperfection becoming clear and utterly beautiful. She wanted to demand every scrap of information her sister possessed—and perhaps would have, six months ago—but she stilled her tongue. If nothing else, she had learned patience amongst the Elves of Middle-earth.

Georgia, for her part, seemed equally enraptured by sight of her sister's face. She reached for Elanor's hand and gripped it like the key to her sanity.

"Are you ok?" the elder asked tentatively.

"No," Georgia breathed. "Ellie, it's—it's so weird, it's gotta be a dream. I thought I was crazy, 'til I saw you here. Please, tell me I'm not losing my mind!"

"You're not; trust me. It's all ok."

A fresh batch of tears threatened to overwhelm Georgia, so she nodded silently and bit her lip. Elanor slipped an arm around her shoulders once more, mind working rapidly.

 _She's absolutely wrecked… goodness, was I this bad when I got here?_

 _Pretty much._

 _Thanks._

 _Just hurry up; she's going to lose it again if you don't get her somewhere quiet and let her sleep it off. Explaining anything right now is just going to break her._

"Alright, here's what we're going to do; I'm going to find Fa—someone, and we will get you bathed and clean and fresh and find you somewhere to sleep, alright?"

"Ok," quivered Georgia.

"You must be hungry, too. Here. Fa—the servant brought tea, and sweet cakes." Elanor removed her encircling arm and reached over to pass Georgia an assorted collection of scones and pies. "Eat these; I'll be back in a moment."

Rising, Elanor moved tentatively towards the door. She presumed that this was Boromir's suite, and that the central sitting room in which she stood led to various other private apartments. The last thing she wished to do, given her previous experiences with the Gondorian man, was stumble upon him half-naked in the bath. Still, Faramir had followed him, and she needed to deal with things swiftly, before Georgia broke down again. She had just made her mind up to enter despite the potential for disaster when the door swung inwards and Faramir himself emerged.

Seeing her standing before him, he raised a questioning eyebrow. Elanor stepped closer and lowered her voice.

"She's distraught, my lord. Is it possible that she might be given a room somewhere, and a bath and clean clothes? I cannot speak with her at present. I do not want to inconvenience you, but—" Her expression was helpless and bewildered, and Faramir softened as he stood before her.

"You need not have asked, Lady Elanor. I shall send for a servant to fulfil your requests. Whilst I am myself confined to the Houses of Healing—and have perhaps angered the Warden by my sudden and unannounced departure—I am aware that the same may not be said for you. I shall arrange for apartments for you both, close by that you may be near should she require you," he said, half-bowing. His expression was full of compassion and thoughtfulness, and Elanor could have cried with gratitude.

"Thankyou, my lord."

Faramir inclined his head and touched her briefly on the arm as he slipped past to speak with a serving woman. Elanor glanced back to where Georgia was slumped upon the couch, numbly holding an untouched pie and staring into nothing.

"Come on, Georgia," Elanor soothed, realising that pressing her to eat was a pointless endeavour. "Come on. Off to a bath, and then to bed." Grabbing the young woman's hands, Elanor tugged her gently to her feet. By she had coaxed her across the thick carpet, Faramir had returned with a matronly servant in tow. The woman, clad in a gown of neat midnight-blue wool, immediately took charge with gentle firmness.

"Do not fret yourself, my lady," she said, falling in immediately on Georgia's other side. "We shall soon have you quite well settled. Come now."

Elanor shot Faramir a grateful look over her shoulder as the servant guided them down the corridor. They shuffled down several corridors, before entering a tomb-like wing lined by identical black doors. The woman flung open the first and ushered Georgia inside. Elanor followed meekly, rather glad to leave the managing of her sister to the capable servant. To her credit, the woman was extremely gentle, and managed Georgia just as their mother would have.

 _Mum! What I wouldn't give for you to be here right now, managing this whole mess…_

"I will do my best to aid you, my lady, but you must also oblige me," the woman chided kindly, guiding Georgia through the first room to a second. The sitting room was much like Boromir's, though smaller and with a less impressive prospect. The second chamber was, in fact, a bathroom—a place which Elanor had sorely missed in her hasty travels. It was fairly large, tiled fresh white, and had an enormous bathtub. A second servant—this one wearing an apron over her almost-black gown—was busy filling the tub with steamy water.

"Lord Faramir informed me that you are the young woman's sister, Lady Elanor," the woman said, smiling past Georgia's quivering form. "I am Brúnel, housekeeper of the Steward."

"Thankyou for your kindness, Brúnel," Elanor replied, stepping forward and helping to slip Georgia's dress from her quaking shoulders. The girl withstood this treatment without protestation. As the dress was discarded, Elanor realised Georgia still wore her Bonds bra and underwear.

 _Been a long time since I saw a pair of those!_

Brúnel made no comment on the alien undergarments, but frowned slightly when her fingers failed to unclasp the bra.

"Here, let me," Elanor proffered, twirling Georgia by the shoulders and slipping the bra undone with practiced ease. Sadly, the garments were far too filthy and worn to warrant saving. Elanor's own modern underwear had long ago succumbed to excessive wear, and the sight of the familiar label was an unexpected jab to the heart.

"Ellie," murmured Georgia, her eyes like a doe's.

"It's all ok, Georgie," she replied, trying to ignore the other's naked body. Georgia's shoulders were frail and thin, her ribs stuck out from her chest and she was obviously weak and exhausted. The sight of her infirmity made Elanor sick with concern.

Brúnel patted Elanor on the arm as she bustled past.

"Do not trouble yourself, my lady," she said in a reassuring way. "We shall soon have your sister tucked safely in bed."

* * *

Elanor lowered herself into the plush armchair.

The room was silent save for Georgia's heavy breaths.

It was a lovely room, if Elanor had cared to admire it; well-made furniture in light oak, and with a rich blue bedspread and upholstery. It lacked personal touches, for there were no ornaments upon the mantle and the candles were new and unlit. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the heavy panes, scattering like a warm smile upon the bed.

The gesture went unanswered, for Elanor's face was fixed in a pensive frown and she cared nothing for tasteful furnishings. Despite her rich gown, she pulled her legs towards her body, curling up on the armchair like she was at home and Georgia had just returned from some school excursion.

 _Rather than from another world, one that used to be my home…_

Truth was, the entire thing was an enormous quandary that Elanor could not even begin to unravel. It was as if someone had torn the rug out from under her feet, just when she had become accustomed to the feel of the peculiar carpet.

 _I was… this… it's home now. Middle-earth is home, and even though this war is the worst and I'm worried sick half the time… I think it will be fine. And I could have had a life here, because everything at home was gone and I had finally… finally… decided that I'd picked the fantasy life that every teenage girl dreamed about. A life that now includes Elrond as my foster-dad, and Elladan and Elrohir… Legolas… and Glorfindel. Glorfindel. My Glorfindel._

 _And now your sister comes along and throws the whole thing into uncertainty?_

 _Pretty much. Because suddenly the whole world's back within reach! What if I'm offered the chance to go home now? What if there's a way to get back… what if I have to choose between Tim and Glorfindel… until now I've never really had a choice. I mean, I've had to "choose" to accept it, but it wasn't like I could… actually… pick. I just kind of… made do…_

 _…what if you have to leave?_

Elanor clutched at her face with her hands.

If the world hadn't already crashed about her ears with the departure of her newly-realised-beloved, it was swiftly succumbing to gravity's influence now. The War of the Ring wasn't exactly an ideal situation, but—Eru preserve her—they'd make it out ok. They had to. She was dependent on this place and it's survival; or, at least, she had been. Now… she was rudely thrown back into the depths of uncertainty.

 _What do I say to her when she wakes up? How do I explain that she's in her favourite book series ever? And what if… what if she asks stuff I can't answer… what do I do… oh, Mum! I wish you were here right now._

Leaning her arms upon the side of the armchair, Elanor lay down her head and wept for her troubles as Georgia slumbered on.

* * *

 **21st March, 3019 (Third Age)**

"Morning Ellie."

Georgia's raspy voice caused Elanor to jump, her eyes darting upwards from the book she was reading to her sister's form on the bed. The morning sun had yet to reach the west-facing windows of the bedchamber, and left the room in cool shade. Elanor had been so deeply immersed in a text relating the history of Gondor—the first book she had read in English in a long time—that she had not noticed her sister waking.

"Georgia!" she cried, placing the book hastily aside and stumbling towards her sister's bedside. The bath of the previous afternoon had done wonders for Georgia's outward appearance. The mass of dark beige hair had dried overnight, and hung in peculiar kinks and waves from her position upon the pillows. She was thin and paler than usual, but her grin was as Elanor had always remembered, and she flung back the bedcovers to embrace her older sister thoroughly. Her eyes no longer held the animal terror of the day before.

"I have never been so glad to see you in my entire life!" Elanor half-choked, so relieved to feel the warmth of Georgia's thin form through her nightgown.

"Me either," came the muffled response. "Gosh Elanor, I thought I was losing my mind!"

"I am well acquainted with that feeling."

"It feels like forever since I've seen you!"

"Well, it's been some time…"

 _And now we've got to face it._

Heart quickening, Elanor drew away and sat down upon the coverlet. Georgia joined her, features growing more solemn as she watched her sister.

"There's a lot that's still weird happening, Ellie. Yesterday's pretty blurry—I know I lost it—but I remember enough to know that you were talking to some of my favourite book characters like old mates."

The silence that fell then was not uncomfortable, nor was it ominous; rather, it was deep and brooding, as Elanor was struck by the full weight of explaining a real Middle-earth to someone from home.

"Many peculiar things _are_ happening," she replied, slowly.

"Don't hide it from me," warned Georgia, with a faint twinkle in her hazel eyes. "I'm not stupid. For the last two weeks, I've been wandering the wilderness with someone who is, to all intents and purposes, Boromir son of Denethor. It's starting to look promisingly like I'm in a storybook, Ellie. And I couldn't quite believe it until I saw you, because you're not someone to get taken up in weird… tales, or lies, or tricks. Whatever this is."

 _Hang on… two weeks?_

"How long have you been here, did you say?"

Georgia frowned. "Two weeks. I was wandering around, looking for you just outside the campsite at the festival; Mum said you'd gone looking for me and I must've missed you. I was just climbing one of the hills when I tripped and fell. When I stood back up, everything seemed—different, somehow. Foreign. Way rockier, too, and steeper. And as I continued up to the top of the hill, I saw a man—Boromir. Well, I didn't know that then, but I do now. I thought he was a cosplayer, Ellie, honestly. I thought it was a _super_ good costume, but he was determined he was _actually_ Boromir. So he asked my name, and I said I was Georgia, and I was looking for Elanor—you—he went as white as a ghost and didn't talk for a good ten minutes. He didn't explain himself, just said I should come to Gondor with him as soon as possible. _Gondor_. I seriously thought he was kidding."

 _…well… things make a great deal more sense now… and I can't say it's a good thing…_

"Two weeks?" Elanor repeated. "Are you quite certain?"

Georgia favoured her with a withering look. "Of course I'm sure, Ellie. I kept count. I thought everyone would worry about how long I'd been gone. I was pretty sus of him for a while; I thought he might be kidnapping me, because who the heck claims to be taking you to _Gondor_? But the campsite was nowhere to be seen. I asked, and he said that apart from his camp—which was in the wrong direction—he hadn't seen anyone. It was spooky, Ellie, but… kinda exciting, at the same time. At first it was cool. I honestly thought I'd strayed into a storybook, and then it wore kind of thin. We walked for miles, and though he convinced me he wasn't about to rape and murder me, I wasn't totally sure of this Boromir character till we got close to Gondor, and he started talking…"

 _What the_ ** _heck_** _is happening?_

"Ellie."

Elanor glanced up from the bedspread to meet Georgia's gaze.

"Yes?"

"I'm not a fool," she grinned. "Look, I was pretty upset yesterday. I was so ridiculously tired, and I couldn't believe that I was actually looking at _Minas Tirith_. But it didn't take me long to realise that—if this place is legit—I'm in the middle of _The Lord of the Rings_. Boromir wasn't super communicative, but he said enough to let me know that he'd just departed the Fellowship, that two of the company had headed off to Mordor, and the rest gone chasing after the hobbits, Merry and Pippin. Ellie—we're in Middle-earth!"

 _Tell me something I don't know, Georgia Ravenscroft!_

 _But that still doesn't explain the six months versus two weeks thing…_

"Indeed."

Georgia laughed gleefully. "I cannot _believe_ this! It was so weird, wandering with Boromir. But now I'm here, in Minas Tirith, and they're going to win the war… well, it's great! And you're here too, which is just—the best. Everything's great. Imagine, Ellie! It's like all the fanfic I used to read, except here I am _living_ it."

Elanor smiled weakly. "That is true."

"Come on, El, you don't even look that excited!" Georgia admonished. "Mind you, there are several things I need you to answer—firstly, why on earth is Boromir alive? And why did he mention Glorfindel as part of the Fellowship?" She shook her head. "It's definitely like the book… but it's not the same. How did you get here, anyway? Where did you arrive? You've done well to become friends with Faramir within two weeks! Going to steal him from Éowyn, are you?" she laughed.

"Georgia—no."

"Oh, come on, I was just kidding."

"I beg you, Georgia, please. There is a great deal that bewilders me at present, and I am already overburdened with many troubles," Elanor said, rising from the bed and beginning to pace the room.

Georgia wrinkled her nose. "Gosh, you're even _talking_ like Boromir! I mean, you're good at languages I know, but still, that's impressive! Why are you so 'overburdened'? This is Middle-earth! It's _awesome_!"

Elanor fixed Georgia with her sternest glance. "Please, do not interrupt me. You say you have been here but a fortnight—"

"That's because I _have_ been here a fortnight!"

"—and yet I do not see how this can be. For though it may be but two weeks since you last saw me, I—it's been—it's been a full six months since I saw the festival campgrounds, G." Pausing in her pacing, Elanor looked at her sister imploringly. "I became lost and reappeared in the wilds of Cardolan six months ago, in October by the timeline of Middle-earth."

Georgia was silent, her bubbly demeanour suppressed.

"Georgia," Elanor repeated. "It is little wonder that Boromir was so startled at your appearance and mention of my name; for he first encountered me in the wilds, and took me with him to Rivendell. There I met Elrond, and sojourned for many months, before I departed to ride south with the Grey Company. From thence I travelled to Rohan, dwelt in the company of Éowyn, and rode with the Rohirrim to Minas Tirith. To Boromir, it was as if our first meeting repeated itself; once more he discovered a lone woman, bearing the name of Ravenscroft, and took her with him on his journey. I have been here for half a year, forming friendships and learning to forget home, Georgia. Six months."

 _Six months!_

"Are _you_ sure, Ellie?"

"Of course I'm certain!" the latter snapped, flopping carelessly upon the end of the bed. "Six months is no short space of time. In an instant I found myself enduring the cool weather of Middle-earth's mid-autumn. I endured Christmas and my birthday in the strange company of Rivendell. I believed you all to have given me up for dead! To hear that you were transported, at the same moment in time, but arrived five and a half months later… it defies reason, G!"

Georgia rolled her eyes. "Elanor, we're in Middle-earth. I doubt random time-switches are the most important things we have to worry about. Somehow we both got taken at the same time, but I was skipped straight forward to—when would it be at the moment? March sometime?"

"Yes."

"So that means," she continued, narrowing her eyes in concentration, "we're around the time as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, yeah?"

Elanor laughed weakly. "You astound me with your memory of dates. It is the 21st of March; the men of Gondor and Rohan began their march to the Black Gate three days ago, and they should reach Mordor on the 24th."

Georgia looked at her in open admiration.

"El, you haven't read the books in years!"

"That is not entirely true; as much as it irked me at first, I discovered you had included your copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ amongst your camping supplies, and—" She cut herself off. Now was probably not an ideal time to confess to losing Georgia's staff and knife belt. "I read them in Rivendell. _The Silmarillion_ remains in Rivendell still, though your copy of _Rings—_ I am afraid I was forced to burn it." She braced herself for an outpouring of wrath. It never came.

"Oh," Georgia said. "Well, that's ok. I mean, you couldn't risk someone finding it, right?"

 _Thank goodness!_

"No. But a few know that I do not come from some land in within Arda. Though," she half-smiled, "I believe that Boromir may be growing suspicious after encountering _two_ members of the Ravenscroft family at opposite ends of the continent."

Georgia laughed heartily. "Fair enough. But you've hardly told me anything, except you got here six months ago. What's happening, Ellie? If you've had half a year—what've you been doing? And you said you started in Eriador? Which means you've been all over the place, lucky thing! All I've done is walk from near Parth Galen down to Minas Tirith, and a long time it took too! Who've you met? It must be—"

"Wait, please," Elanor cried. "One question at a time."

"If you insist," countered her sister, twinkling. Georgia crossed her legs and sat, waiting expectantly. Elanor sighed.

 _Where do I even start…_

 _At the beginning?_

"The entirety of the tale is frightfully tangled, G. It may take some time, for it is not always straightforward…"

Georgia nodded. "I'm sure it'll be fine. Before you start though, is there any chance I can have some breakfast? I'm absolutely starving."

"Of course," Elanor laughed. "Forgive me. I attempted to feed you last night, but you appeared to be distracted. I shall fetch one of the serving girls." She slipped off the bed and smoothed her skirts before returning to the sitting room of the suite. Half a moment after she had rung the bell beside the door, Brúnel appeared.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Lady Georgia is awake. Would you please be able to fetch her some breakfast?"

Brúnel curtseyed. "Of course, my lady. Do you desire anything yourself?"

"Some buttered toast and coffee would be nice," Elanor admitted, thinking back to her meagre dinner of the evening before. She'd been far too anxious to eat.

"As you wish, my lady. I shall send one of the girls with it presently."

"Thankyou, Brúnel."

Ten minutes later, a pretty serving girl entered with a bowl of porridge for Georgia, and the toast and coffee Elanor had requested. After grabbing several slices and pouring herself a generous mug of coffee and cream, Elanor clambered onto the middle of the bed and sat cross-legged.

"Alright," mumbled Georgia through a mouthful of porridge. "You can start now."

Elanor raised an eyebrow at her sister's atrocious table manners, but made no comment.

"I arrived here in a fairly similar fashion to you, I suppose," she began, sipping at the hot drink. "Save that I, unlike you, took several days to encounter Boromir. By he discovered me, I was hungry, exhausted, and utterly hysterical. It was—unpleasant. Little wonder he was so horrified to encounter a woman who claimed kinship with me, for I was nothing more than a disagreeable burden for the weeks that followed." She paused, wondering if Georgia would interrupt. Her sister was uncharacteristically quiet, listening with wide eyes as she shovelled porridge into her mouth. "We walked for perhaps three weeks. I do not wish to dwell on it, for it was horrible. Boromir's food was scarce, for he had journeyed long on his way to Rivendell for the Council of Elrond."

"You got to—" Georgia began, cutting herself short beneath Elanor's baleful stare.

"Yes, G, I did. But I shall come to that soon enough. We walked for many miles, until I quite lost track of time. It was horrid and filthy, I was frightfully hungry, and have never seen such blisters before! When we, at length, reached Rivendell, I woke to see Gandalf the Grey. It was then I realised the reality of my plight; it was not the hideous nightmare I had believed." Elanor stopped to take several bites of toast. The memories hurt somehow, as she thought back to that time when she would've given her right arm to leave Middle-earth.

 _And now I want to stay, and it's like I'm the Gandalf talking to Georgia…_

"But you got through it."

"I did; with little grace, but I did," Elanor said, ruefully. "I was worse than a caged bear. I didn't believe Gandalf, I was hysterical and furious—I saw an Elf for the first time and hardly believed my eyes. If Rivendell had been any less beautiful, or less comfortable… Perhaps I would be buried in the north, rather than speaking with you now. Fortunately Elrond—"

"I cannot _believe_ you've seen Rivendell!"

"It defies words," admitted the elder sister. "You would love it, G. I stayed four months there, as best as I can recall. And Elrond is even more magnificent than the books—"

"Well yeah, Boromir's even more noble than I pictured him to be. They're all so tall! And their shoulders are super broad. I mean, Sean Bean was _gorgeous_ —even if he died, which you haven't explained yet by the way—but not like this! Black hair like the books! And would make every guy back home look kind of… weedy, and weak, and common!"

Elanor couldn't suppress a smile. "Pray, let me finish Georgia! Elrond is even more kingly than Boromir; as lovely as an Elf, but with the powerful build of one of the race of Men. He is kind and wise. I spent a great deal of time in his company," she said, slowly, wondering how to broach the subject of her peculiar relationship with the Elf-lord. "There are many things which I am disinclined to discuss now—but Elrond saw fit to adopt me, of sorts, as a foster-child. I was quite alone, and must have been more mournful than a soaked kit—"

"You got _adopted by Lord Elrond._ "

"That would be what I said, yes."

Georgia let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. "That's such a fan fiction thing to happen, El! I can't believe you—"

"And you, sister, are behaving as a young, idealistic child, fawning over the most powerful people in Arda," retorted Elanor, brushing a curl behind her ear. "You must allow me to finish."

Georgia attempted to look chastened, but the light in her hazel eyes belied the meek expression upon her countenance.

"Of course, Ellie. Continue."

"I have quite forgotten where I was!"

"Elrond adop—"

"Ah, yes. I arrived in Rivendell with Boromir, and it was not merely that I spoke in a peculiar voice, or that my knowledge of Middle-earth surpassed that of any other ordinary woman. My presence upset a balance in the world, for after I awoke Gandalf explained many things to me. He spoke of Frodo's encounter with the Nazgûl—" Georgia looked painfully close to interrupting "—but rather than Elrond drawing him back from the mist of death, Frodo died. Stay your words, for I see the unspoken phrases in your eyes, Georgia. I was distraught when I heard of Frodo's death. I believed I had killed him, the most integral person in the story, save Aragorn. Whilst my appearance shifted the fabric of Arda, Lord Elrond helped me to understand I was not to blame. Yet this is how many things became—"

"Why Boromir is still alive and Glorfindel's in the Fellowship too?" Georgia offered quietly.

"In essence, yes. Rather than having Frodo as Ringbearer, Sam proffered himself instead. And, as peculiar as the notion might be, Gimli has gone with him to Mordor, to Mount Doom."

Georgia laughed in disbelief. "Gosh! Gimli! I mean, he didn't seem terribly tempted by the Ring, not like Boromir… but that's weird. I would've thought Merry or Pippin…"

"Nay; they were taken by orcs."

"But they're ok, right?"

"That part of the story remained unchanged."

"And Glorfindel?"

Elanor glanced down at her coffee, hoping to conceal the blush which crept into her cheeks.

 _How to explain that I'd… given up on Tim, and come to love Glorfindel instead? Six months for me, two weeks for her… the amount of time she's been here wouldn't have changed any feelings. But half a year's different. It's going to look like the worst kind of betrayal…_

"Glorfindel, Gandalf and Elrond all came to know that I was transported here from another world," she said instead. "They were aware of my 'foreknowledge', as they came to refer to it. I spoke to Glorfindel of Boromir's death; his presence within the company managed to save the man from death. However, I was led to believed my efforts had failed, for Boromir should have arrived in Minas Tirith many days ago. Knowing that he was slowed by your presence explains many things, and it brings me joy to know he lives. He is a good man, G."

Georgia smiled. "I know. He was exceedingly kind to me. Very much the gentleman that every teenage girl dreams about."

"Yes, he is courteous indeed."

"Exactly."

Elanor shook her head and laughed softly. "It is the way of things in Middle-earth."

Georgia clapped her hands in delight. "Awesome. If I'm going to be stuck here for a bit, I may as well make the most of a bunch of polite men."

 _Stuck here for a bit? Far out Georgia, you have no idea! How do I even begin to explain… what it's like being here forever… if we are even going to be here forever…_

"It is certainly pleasant," Elanor said, rather shortly. "To return to the tale, however: the Fellowship departed, and I was grieved. I had come to call many of them friends. Legolas in particular—you would treasure meeting him. He is something of an elder brother, though nothing like Orlando Bloom. I believe you would enjoy an acquaintance with him."

"Goodie," Georgia grinned.

"And Elladan and Elrohir—"

"Oh, we don't see much of them! Are they like Elrond? Or those decipher cards that _WETA_ released after the movies? They look cool, but—"

Elanor frowned. "I never saw the decipher cards, but they are very tall, with thin faces. They are strong and yet fair to look upon, with chiseled jaws and well-made brows. Their eyes are deep and grey. They treated me as one of their kin, and when they rode south with the company of Rangers to meet Aragorn, I accompanied them."

"Now _that's_ cool," uttered Georgia, scraping the last of her porridge from the bowl and swallowing it. "So it really does follow the book plotline? No Haldir appearing at Helm's Deep?"

"I was not present at the battle," Elanor said, slowly. "I saw the wreckage which it caused—but I do not believe any of Lothlórien were in attendance." She glanced out of the window. The carnage at Helm's Deep had been horrific, and having ridden through a battle personally, it was as if she could physically smell the stench of death once more.

"Good. I'm glad it's like the books."

Elanor nodded absently. "Yes."

Georgia placed the tray to one side and sat cross-legged like an eager child. "So you rode south to Rohan, and met Aragorn? I guess Legolas and Glorfindel went with him after Merry and Pippin, if Gimli went with Sam."

"Pardon? Oh, yes," Elanor replied, drawing herself back from the nightmare which had threatened to overwhelm her. "Sadly Gandalf the White had already departed for Minas Tirith with Pippin by I encountered them, so I rode to Helm's Deep. We passed by Edoras and climbed the path to Dunharrow. There I met Éowyn—" Georgia's eyes lit up "—and somehow I was persuaded to ride into battle with her and Merry."

"You—"

Elanor fixed her sister with the most serious stare she could. "Georgia, I do not desire to discuss the battle. I just—I can't."

For once, Georgia was silenced without protest. She quirked her eyebrow slightly, as if studying Elanor anew. Then she nodded, as if accepting the changes she observed.

"That's ok. I guess that's how you ended up here?"

"Correct. I was placed in the Houses of Healing with Éowyn and Merry, when the former went to demand that Faramir permit her to leave. Faramir declined, but requested she walk in the gardens with him if it pleased her. After Éowyn returned inside, Faramir asked me to stay and speak with him. We were eating lunch when a soldier—Barhador—came to me and said that Boromir had returned."

"And then you saw I'd come as well."

Elanor nodded. "Correct."

Georgia took a moment to absorb the information, sitting in ponderous silence which was generally alien to her character. Finally she stared at Elanor, perfectly serious.

"And even though all this has been changed—do you still think Sauron can be destroyed?"

 _You will not cry. You will not cry. Don't you dare. We've been over this. Stop it! No crying!_

She sighed. "For the sake of all here, G, I dearly hope so. I have been earnestly hoping and praying for many weeks. If any aside from Frodo may destroy the Ring, Sam shall do it."

Her younger sister nodded, seemingly satisfied with the confidence in Elanor's tone.

 _I must be getting a lot better at fooling people into thinking I actually believe what I'm saying…_

"So when should we hear whether the Ring is destroyed in—"

"Four days," Elanor sighed, brushing the crumbs on her fingers onto the tray.

"Four days," repeated Georgia. "That's ok. We can make four days."

Elanor stared at her. Part of her wanted to scream at her younger sibling, to release all of her pent-up worry and frustration. Four days of anxiety might seem nothing to Georgia, who had been dropped in Middle-earth two weeks before. But Elanor had been dwelling on the slim chance of success for their mission for months. _Six months_.

 _It may be a game to her, but for me… she doesn't even begin to get it…_

She had withstood the steadily mounting pressure of the coming war; watched her friends ride away, spent sleepless nights in the saddle, and observed the god-forsaken carnage of the battlefield in person. She'd invested herself in this. To know that so many people whom she loved were in peril made four days seem like an unbearable lifetime.

Instead of shouting, Elanor gritted her teeth. She had scolded her sister often enough throughout their childhood and adolescence; this was not the time or place. And, as she pondered it further, she found that she had neither the will nor the inclination to engage in a battle of wills with the fiery Georgia as once she might. She would no longer be her sister's keeper, ever the one lecturing and holding her to account for her frivolity. All of her energy felt sapped away.

 _I just want it to be over._

* * *

 **So here is the dialoguing between Elanor and Georgia. I know it's an extremely long chapter, basically all discussion between the two, but I wanted to highlight the differences between the sisters (especially compared to Chapter One) after Elanor has spent six months learning to use Middle-earth speak, and grown a lot. I want to demonstrate how her character has developed since the beginning. :)**

 **Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed this last instalment! I made an effort to distinguish Elanor and Georgia's language, mannerisms, etc. and hope that there aren't any gross indiscretions. Please inform me if you notice anything amiss.**

 **Chapter 35 should reach your web browsers shortly as well. I, personally, am excited to see how Elanor's friends deal with Georgia... *chuckles evilly* Especially Éowyn and the twins. Goodness, this is gonna be fun...**

 **Reviews are always treasured!**

 **Finwe. :)**


	35. The Steward of Gondor

**Chapter 35 - The Steward of Gondor**

 **PLEASE NOTE: this is a long one. Sorry in advance. Long dialogue stretches incoming. Brace yourselves.**

* * *

 **23rd March, 3019 (Third Age)**

Elanor swallowed a sharp remark. Georgia stood before a mirror in her bedchamber, twirling to observe the full effects of the gown Brúnel had acquired for her. Truth be told, it was an exquisite dress; a heavy copper-coloured silk with sleeves that puffed and then narrowed at the elbows, and a square neckline. The fabric reminded Elanor of pre-Renaissance Italian designs, with it's large floral pattern woven in a slightly lighter shade thread.

"Ellie! It's like a princess's dress!"

The one addressed sighed and stepped forward to stand beside her sister.

"Indeed, Georgia." Her forehead was creased in concern as she pondered what on earth she was supposed to do with her sister.

"El?"

Georgia finished her elated pirouette, hazel eyes brimming with delight.

 _She's just… absolutely… incorrigible._

 _Wasn't she always?_

 _Well… yeah. But it was never so important for her not to behave like… well… a silly child, before. At home, people knew she was the chattery, bouncy sister. Here she could offend every Gondorian noble within thirty seconds!_

"Elanor Ingrid Ravenscroft!"

" _What!_ "

Georgia grinned wickedly. "You're daydreaming."

"Yes. Now listen, for there are several very important things you must understand," said the elder, grasping her sister's arm and pulling her away from the mirror. "You have read Tolkien's books often enough to recognise that this is not a jest. The people of Middle-earth behave in a vastly different manner to a group of Year 12 Australian high school students."

Georgia raised an eyebrow at the poorly-veiled criticism and shook her arm free. "Oh? I thought it was about time you began telling me off again!"

"Georgia…" began Elanor, warningly. In the previous two days, she'd come painfully close to berating her sister on multiple occasions. Fortunately, weariness and tactful insistence by Brúnel had kept Georgia confined to her suite to rest and recuperate. Elanor had been profoundly thankful for the imposed incarceration, for it allowed her to visit Éowyn and Merry alone and begin to process the multitude of problems which arose with Georgia's appearance. Both woman and hobbit had been exceedingly pleased to hear that all of her family had not perished at the hands of the Wild-men. In fact, Éowyn seemed more delighted than Elanor herself that Georgia had come.

 _Just goes to show how wonderful an effect love has on an individual…_

"I… just don't get you, El. You're being so—boring."

"Perhaps I am," replied Elanor, with prim dignity. "Yet I have managed to find my way about Middle-earth for ten times longer than you, and I wish to save you from embarrassment."

"Do you?" came the tart answer.

"Yes!" Elanor cried, exasperated. "Please, listen." The desperation upon her countenance must have stayed Georgia's hot temper, for the fire in her eyes dwindled, and she nodded.

"Okay."

"Firstly; to Faramir and Éowyn you shall say absolutely nothing. I will not have the happiness of that pair jeopardised by any kind of silly remark."

"You think I'd wreck that?" said the younger, looking affronted.

"I do not know what you would say, G, but I need you to swear you shan't interfere."

"Fine," she muttered begrudgingly. "I promise. What else?"

"You will allow me to speak to Boromir concerning the matter of our parallel appearances. There are many things which I have compiled as excuses for my peculiar arrival, and I will not have our stories contradicting one another. If there is anything that you must explain, defer to me. Yes?"

"Alri-ight."

"There are none remaining in Minas Tirith who know of my full tale; until that time in which Gandalf, Glorfindel or Elladan and Elrohir return, you must remain silent on the matter of our home world." Georgia rolled her eyes again, though said nothing. Elanor stifled her own temper. "And finally, you shall put that clever mind of yours to adapting the mannerisms and speech of Middle-earth. It is not as hard as one might expect, and it shall lower the suspicion placed upon you. Through my friendship with the Elves, Lord Boromir and Lady Éowyn, I am assumed to be a noblewoman of the far south. For the sake of everyone involved, I cannot allow you to endanger that; we are entirely dependent on Denethor's family in this matter."

"So, what, I speak like someone out of Jane Austen?"

"If that will make you sound less of a lower-class Australian, I say yes."

Georgia looked ready to spit out a fierce retort, but instead lowered her gaze. "I will try, El."

Despite her own frustration, Elanor smiled. "I am sure you will do excellently, though you must call me 'Elanor'; they rarely use shortenings here, except in private."

"I will do my best."

Satisfied that was the utmost she was going to get out of Georgia, Elanor nodded. "Then let us go; Lady Éowyn desires to speak with us—and," she added, unable to resist, "one does not simply keep royalty waiting."

* * *

Éowyn was sitting proudly upon a window-seat when Elanor and Georgia entered a quarter of an hour later. Ioreth had shown the Ravenscroft sisters to the Rohirric woman's chambers; Faramir had made good his promise in finding her a room which faced east, and Éowyn took full advantage of the prospect to gaze in the direction of Mordor during those hours she was not outdoors.

"Elanor!" she said, rising with a small smile. She held out her hands, and the pair kissed one another upon the cheek in the manner of greeting amongst friends.

"Éowyn," returned Elanor, forcing a nervous smile. Then she half-turned, gesturing towards the door. "This is my younger sister, Lady Georgia."

Éowyn's grey eyes moved past her friend to the other Ravenscroft, studying her shrewdly. Georgia was three inches shorter than Elanor, with slightly wavy light brown hair. In build she more closely resembled Éowyn than her sibling, with a straighter form and wiry limbs made more compact by her inferior height. She had a squarer jaw and appeared sturdy and athletic despite two weeks of walking at Boromir's forced march pace. As Éowyn made her assessment, Elanor noticed Georgia lift her chin, as if daring the shield-maiden to find fault with her. It seemed she passed the test, however; Éowyn moved past Elanor and curtseyed briefly.

"It gladdens my heart to meet one of Elanor's kin, Lady Georgia," she said, Rohirric accent pronounced in the company of the two Australians.

"Nice to meet you too," Georgia replied.

 _…it could've been worse_ , Elanor reminded herself, restraining a wince.

"How came you to enter the White City, Lady Georgia?"

Georgia shot a glance in Elanor's direction. The latter spoke swiftly to avert indiscretion.

"Lord Boromir, Lord Faramir's brother, has returned," she said. "He had travelled to Imladris and returned from thence with some of my companions. They parted company south of the East Emnet, in Rohan. As he travelled hence he met my sister; in the—chaos which ensued following the attack by the Wild-men upon our family, she escaped and strayed far, rather than perishing as I first believed. Lord Boromir was fortunate enough to discover her."

Éowyn gave her sad smile. "It is well that it was so; few are so favoured in these times."

"Indeed," Elanor replied guardedly.

The shield-maiden turned to the window for a moment. Over the previous days, she had become even less inclined for speech than she had been at Dunharrow. The shadow in the east weighed heavily upon her straight shoulders, though it was a different burden to the one Elanor carried. Éowyn did not fear death; rather, she feared the evil of Sauron itself.

 _I couldn't feel the malice of the Ring when I touched it. Perhaps I'm immune because I come from another world. That would explain why Éowyn is so worried about the shadow, and I'm more concerned about a handful of individual people!_

"The weather is nice."

Elanor twirled to glare at Georgia, who shrugged. As safe as it generally was, this was not an instance where the weather was an appropriate topic to fill the silence. Éowyn did not seem to hear Georgia's remark.

"Are you to walk in the gardens with Lord Faramir this morning, Éowyn?" asked Elanor, shooting Georgia another warning look whilst the shield-maiden's back was turned.

"Yes." She moved away from the window and glided across the floor with athletic ease. "Will you join us?" she asked, glancing at Georgia also.

"We shall, thank you," answered Elanor on behalf of them both. Georgia grinned broadly.

Éowyn favoured them with another melancholy smile and held the door open for them to pass through. Elanor swept out with Georgia in tow, gesturing furiously with a lowered hand that she should fall into the rear rather than walk three abreast. Unfortunately the hint was lost, and her sister trotted blithely along at Éowyn's other side.

Elanor gazed ahead, silently praying that Georgia would not embarrass herself by speaking. Fortunately she seemed too enraptured by the fairly mundane corridors to blurt out an awkward remark.

 _Was I this bad when I first came here? Honestly… if I was half this bad, Gandalf must've been terrified to let me see absolutely anyone! Gosh… I guess Glorfindel probably covered for me a fair bit too… Eru, let him make it through this! I just… I want to see him again… Georgia's here, and everything's… a mess… and I just want Glorfindel to tell me all will be right again…_

She bit her lip till she drew blood. Missing Glorfindel was like a physical ache. It sat just below her sternum like a fractious, hungry creature which moaned constantly for the loss of those whom she loved.

 _No different to the feeling you had about Tim six months ago…_

 _Two more days… two more days and I'll know if it's all ok…_

 _Even if Sauron is defeated, you know that he might… well… you know…_

 _All too well._

The Warden smiled in greeting as they passed through the door to the gardens. He looked pleased to see Éowyn in company with others, and made no objection to their passing. To Georgia he paid little heed. Elanor managed a strained smile, feeling too overwhelmed by pent-up tension to manage the constant risk of taking Georgia out amongst the native people of Middle-earth.

 _At least she looks right in the dress, with her hair and everything…_

The breeze which struck Elanor as they exited was cool and refreshing. It carried with it the smell of rain and budding blossoms, caressing her hair and face.

 _Can something so clean and unsullied possibly forebode the triumph of the shadow?_

 _No, but… Glorfindel… and Elladan and Elrohir, and Legolas… Aragorn, Éomer, Gandalf… all of them…_

Elanor inhaled slowly. It was like drinking in the scent of freshly laundered clothes, imbued with the aroma of her mother's laundry powder. At least if they were all to die, they would go breathing the perfume of spring.

Faramir was waiting by the wall as they approached. He faced east, his proud back to them and the breeze tickling his raven hair. Both hands rested upon the stone parapet. Éowyn drew several paces ahead as they approached, speaking Faramir's name in a low voice. The man—Elanor could no longer call him the Steward—turned, and greeted the collection of women with his gentle smile.

"Lady Éowyn," he bowed. "Lady Elanor; and, I believe, Lady Georgia?"

Elanor inclined her head, and Georgia dropped into a bold curtsey.

 _Remind me to tell her that is definitely not how it's done…_

"It pleases me to see you recovered, Lady Georgia," Faramir said. Turning to Elanor, he smiled slightly. "My brother would make a request of you, Lady Elanor."

"Naturally," she replied, unsure whether to be pleased or frightened that Boromir would wish to speak with her.

"Yes; he is much occupied at present, having taken up his position as Steward, yet he wished me to ask if you might wait upon him in his apartments after the noon meal, lady."

Elanor nodded deferentially. "Of course, my lord."

"If you call for Brúnel, she will have one of the serving women escort you to his chambers at the second hour after noon."

"Thankyou, my lord."

"You are very generous, Lady Elanor," Faramir said, offering Éowyn his arm. "Come, my lady; shall we walk together beneath the trees?"

Éowyn's ghost of a smile warmed somewhat as she fell into step beside the younger son of Denethor. "If you wish it, my lord."

When the two had retreated some distance, Georgia stepped close to Elanor and laughed merrily.

"El, he's perfect!"

"Pardon?"

"Faramir! He's absolutely as I expected him to be, though more kingly; Éowyn is equally lovely, though very… stiff and cold."

"Mm," Elanor breathed, moving to where Faramir had stood at the brink of the wall and scanning the eastern horizon.

"Ellie?"

"Yes?"

Georgia moved to join her, looking over the land enclosed by Rammas Echor. From the foot of the city, the Pelennor Fields stretched into the distance; it was a full twelve miles to the Causeway Forts between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath to the north-east. Her loved ones would return by that road, making the arduous journey across the plains.

Those who survived, at least.

"Are you ok, El?"

The question took Elanor by surprise. The sentiment was a chastisement in itself, for Georgia might be impulsive and stubborn, but she certainly was not cruel. Elanor's recount of her half-year adventure in Middle-earth had only skimmed the details of what had truly occurred. She hadn't even attempted to broach the subject of her emotional rollercoaster, romance or the constant fear of disaster which had come to dog her every footstep.

"No, I'm not," she said, at last.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Elanor turned to her sister and smiled sadly. "Actually, I would."

Georgia gestured to a nearby bench, and the two moved to sit upon it. Éowyn and Faramir were settled beneath a tree about fifty metres away. Confident they would not be observed or overheard, Elanor exhaled and let her facade drop, the only time she had done so save the morning Glorfindel had berated her.

 _Gosh, I miss him…_

Staring out into the distance, she began to speak. The words flowed as if she read from the pages of a book; rehearsed, pre-planned, intended. Every pent-up emotion spilled out, spreading like ink across parchment, the tale she had longed to tell for many months. Old ways mingled with new as she found the speech she had adopted for so long hard to fully relinquish. Many things she said had not been consciously formed within her mind, nor fully known till that moment as she poured her heart out to her sister. It felt odd, voicing such thoughts to Georgia; Elanor had always preferred her mother as a confidante, for the two were alike in temperament. Yet she found that, in that moment, none could be better than Georgia.

"Six months is a long time. When I arrived, I was angry. Furious. All I could think of was my blue striped PJs, the grey couch at home, and watching _Midsomer Murders_ with you, Mum and Dad. I wanted to go back so badly. I believed that Boromir was crazy, at first. The walk to Rivendell was the worst thing I have ever experienced. Arriving there was a relief, I suppose, but I still had very little idea what was going on. I was alone; Boromir, silent and gruff, was my only 'friend'. I couldn't quite wrap my head around things. Watching the Elves and those who attended the Council put a few things into perspective, I suppose. I understood that Middle-earth is all the reality the people here have ever known, and I was treating it like—the book that it was, in my mind. It just couldn't be reality, not for them; how are parallel universes even possible? It defied all rational explanation, everything I'd ever told myself.

"And then I made friends. Lord Elrond was so—attractive, but not in a romantic sense. He just seemed to ooze warmth and comfort, and he reminded me of Dad more than I could handle at first. I longed for consolation and sympathy, and he gave it to me. He called me daughter, and welcomed me into his household as long as I wished to stay there. Legolas taught me how to spar, and kept me company when others were busy. Glorfindel read with me, teaching me Sindarin and chess and—to laugh again. Bilbo was as sweet as Tolkien wrote him. I found that I rather liked this Middle-earth.

"Perhaps that frightened me most of all; for I was flustered at the thought of losing home, and yet I enjoyed my existence in Rivendell. I read and rode horses, sparred and wandered in the gardens. It was rather like a holiday, save that I had to reconcile myself to never seeing my family or friends again. It was rather nice. The Fellowship was chosen, and it wasn't like a fan-fiction. I wasn't pushed into a hideous adventure scampering across Middle-earth with Gandalf.

"Still, it wasn't all hunky-dory. As the Fellowship's departure drew closer, I found myself starting to wonder what I was supposed to _do_ here. All I could think was that there had to be a reason I'd been dragged out of my real life to come to an alternate universe. Surely fate wouldn't be so cruel as to snatch me out of a nice home for the sole purpose of sitting in Rivendell? I couldn't believe that. I wouldn't. So I tried to rationalise things and figure out some 'task' I was supposed to fulfil.

"After the Fellowship left I went from depressed to elated to determined and all the way back through again. I felt like I'd been rejected and abandoned, though it was irrational and I knew it then too. Lord Elrond was still lovely, and it was in this time that I became acquainted with Arwen, Elladan and Elrohir. Arwen is very kind, though I never grew as close to her as the twins. She was more remote, more contemplative and I found many of our pursuits didn't line up. But I enjoyed talking to another female. And the twins were like the brothers we never had. I couldn't remain there forever, though; when Galadriel sent a missive summoning the Rangers, I convinced Elrond to let me go with them.

"I suppose when I initially left, I was still wrapped up in some hifalutin notion of being a hero, of changing something and being useful. Truth be told, the fact I had tipped Glorfindel off about letting Gandalf face the balrog and saving Boromir were perhaps the only helpful things I have actually done; and both endangered another, and not myself. I rode with the Rangers, but got coddled by Elladan and Elrohir. If they hadn't looked after me, I never would've made it at the fast pace the Rangers set.

"Seeing the results of Helm's Deep made me sick. I was exhausted, angry and desperate all over again, and as we reached Dunharrow the people I knew were off again. I'd scampered from Rivendell to the White Mountains to stick close to them, the familiar ones, and I found that I was not equal to following them; nor could I, in fact, do anything even remotely close to aiding them. I said farewell, and found myself with Éowyn.

"You have no idea how much I wanted her to be the best friend I'd missed for five months. But I found her cool and stern and hopeless. I tried to give her hope—perhaps that was my mission? She was so upset, so demoralised and drained of optimism. I could understand that, knowing what she'd been through, but I wanted her to be happy! And I felt like I made headway for a few days. I convinced her it would be ok, I agreed to go with her into battle, and for a little while I thought that maybe she wouldn't attempt the suicide mission thing. I deluded myself into it, I guess. And Éowyn did open up to me, to a certain degree. We're as close to friends as I suppose we can be, at this stage, and with everything that's going on."

Elanor paused and swallowed several times. Georgia had moved closer to her as she spoke, and now gently squeezed her hand. She hurried on before emotions could overtake the quiet recitation.

"The battle was the worst thing I've ever seen. I think I begin to understand what the veterans at home go through. For days, it was like all I could see was the people who were killed; some were killed by my hand. I felt like a murderer. I still see them, sometimes. When I'm not distracted… the pictures fly before my eyes more clearly than real life. When I woke up after the battle, Glorfindel was there, and—it made me feel better, speaking to him. I've made friends here, friends who aren't just figments of my imagination. It doesn't make the prospect of going home any easier, having set up a life here where people know me, and… like me, I guess.

"Before I rode with Éowyn and Merry into battle, I accepted that I was in Middle-earth. I had gotten to the point where I knew that I wasn't going home. I was ok with it. And I realised there was no point not investing myself. I didn't have a special 'job' to do; I think I figured that out a fair while ago. But what was stopping me from doing my part? Why shouldn't I ride with Éowyn and do what I could? It might be fruitless, I might die, but so could all of my friends. I needed to be prepared to risk it for the survival of Arda, the place I was stuck in."

"Ellie, I didn't—I didn't realise," Georgia whispered, as silence fell for a moment.

Elanor shrugged, blinking rapidly to dispel the thought of any tears. She squeezed her sister's hand firmly.

"I know, G."

"So what are you going to do?"

 _Now that's the biggest problem…_

"I honestly don't have any idea. I like it here, and I don't even want to contemplate the notion of leaving now, because I've become so accustomed to the idea of never seeing you, Mum, Dad or Tim, ever again." She hesitated, wanting to fully commit to the self-disclosure, but unsure how to broach the subject. "Look, Georgie. After I'd been here a while, I knew that I'd pine away if I kept loving Tim like I did. So I convinced myself to give him up, to get over him."

Georgia nodded slowly. "I never loved anyone the way you loved Tim, but I think I can see why you'd do that."

"Yeah. I mean, you and Mum and Dad are always going to be my family. I didn't have to put you aside to enjoy being with Elrond or the twins. But if I was going to live out a life here, I didn't want to be stuck back on Earth loving Tim and never being able to go back."

"I understand."

Elanor glanced down at her hands, then, blushing slightly. "It seems a bit silly, really. Tim and I were committed, but—well—it wasn't like we'd ever even… well… you know…" She trailed off.

"But you'd known each other for years," Georgia said, comfortingly. "You were friends before you started dating. You were traditional, and didn't sleep together, but you loved each other. Doesn't mean it's easy to get over a boyfriend that amazing."

"No."

 _Go go go! Now's the time to say it._

"Thanks for telling me all of this, El," said her sister, smiling slightly. "I'm sorry that I didn't think about how you were feeling at all. I didn't even begin to recognise all the problems you might encounter, coming to Middle-earth and learning to live here permanently."

"It was hard. But there's another thing, G. Something I need to say, and I hope—based off what we said before—that you'll understand."

Georgia grinned. "Try me."

Elanor took a deep breath, her mouth feeling dry. "Ok, well, as I said, I forced myself into moving on from Tim, and found that many people were willing to befriend a lonely, 'orphaned' woman. The twins and Legolas were always like brothers to me, and I thought Glorfindel was too. But I'm in love with him, G. I don't know how it's possible when I've known him for less than half a year, but he's amazing. Everything about him is graceful and athletic, and he's kind and wise and cheerful all at once. I thought of him as a friend at first, but a few days ago—before they rode to Mordor—he confessed he loved me. And I realised I loved him."

She turned to Georgia, hoping to gauge her reaction. The girl was silent, face tilted downwards in contemplation so Elanor could not read her features.

"Perhaps," she continued, feeling flustered, "it's because he saw me when I arrived in Rivendell, absolutely exhausted and upset. He knows where I'm from, heard my tale, and listened to me. Plus, when I was feeling extra lonely and in need of friendship and kindness, he was always there—in the best way. He became one of my greatest, most supportive companions, and when he said he loved me it was so easy to imagine him as something more." Elanor paused, helpless in the face of Georgia's silence. "Look, I don't know how else to explain it, but I love him! He's wonderful, it's—"

"Ellie, stop, it's ok," laughed Georgia, glancing up from her pose of contemplation. "It just took a while to sink in, that's all. That you and an _Elf_ are in love with each other. I didn't expect it, but I can totally see… don't think for a moment I'd be angry with you over it."

"So… you don't think I'm… betraying Tim?"

"Is that what you think?" asked Georgia seriously.

Elanor frowned. "I guess I did, for a while. I worried that I moved on to Glorfindel so easily, and of course I felt sad knowing I'd stopped loving Tim."

"Well don't think like that," Georgia said, firmly. "You're not the kind of person to cheat, El."

 _I take back every bad thing I said about her in the last few days. She may be seventeen and every inch the impulsive teenage girl, but she's my sister. And I love her._

"Thanks, G," Elanor mumbled, reaching over to hug her tightly. "I am exceedingly glad to get all of that off my chest. I used to journal stuff, back in Rivendell, but I haven't been able to do that since I started touring Middle-earth."

"Touring Middle-earth?" laughed her sister. "Is that what you call it?"

"Well… rustic touring," Elanor admitted.

Georgia laughed at the comment, and then fell silent. For some time, the two sisters rested in each other's arms and listened to the crisp spring wind teasing the trees.

 _I feel like I've just delivered a 2-hour lecture_ , Elanor moaned, internally. _I don't think I've talked that much… ever._

 _Come on, admit it. Helps to talk it out, doesn't it?_

 _Yeah._

 _And now Georgia knows._

 _Mmhmm._

"You're going to have to introduce me to him, you know Ellie."

"Huh?"

"You'll have to introduce me to Glorfindel."

Elanor's stomach tensed.

"If he comes back."

"What do you mean? They win, El! Sam won't fail us. They're going to win," smiled Georgia, glancing at her earnestly.

 _They've got to!_

"Yeah," Elanor nodded, at last. "I guess they do."

Georgia squeezed her hand again. "It'll be ok, El."

They lapsed into silence for a time. There was still a certain degree of anxiety which lingered in Elanor's mind, especially concerning Glorfindel's survival—a fact that was not guaranteed by the books. Yet the fear which dogged her had fallen some metres behind, driven off by the sisterly understanding.

 _And, for once, she didn't interrupt every two sentences!_

Suddenly Elanor smiled, and gave Georgia a gentle nudge in the ribs. "Hey sis, I've got one more confession for you."

"Yeah?"

"You know that staff and knife belt you had at the festival?"

"Of course! Mum had it commissioned for me. You don't mean you've got it here, do you?!"

Elanor grinned wickedly. "Not quite. In fact, I've been agonising over those items for months, because—I lost them within the first few days of my traipsing through Middle-earth."

* * *

Elanor smoothed her skirts as she followed Brúnel down the echoey corridor towards Boromir's suite. Her features smooth, and she no longer felt as if she clung to her composure by slippery threads. Her confession to Georgia had heralded several hours of cheerful banter, after which they had conversed with Éowyn and Faramir. Shortly before noon, her sister had professed an insatiable hunger, and they had retired to Elanor's chambers for an early lunch. Two hours following, she had left Georgia reading and summoned the housekeeper to escort her to the interview with Boromir.

The prospect of speaking with the now-Steward was somewhat unsettling. Aside from the day of Georgia's appearance, Elanor had not spoken to Boromir since his departure from Rivendell with the Fellowship. They had parted as friends; yet still it remained a distinct possibility that he should adopt his cool and haughty manner once more. Added to this was an utter bewilderment as to what he might ask her; had she dishonoured the House of Húrin?

Fortunately, the journey from the guest wing to the Steward's apartments was not an overly long one; Elanor had little time to ponder her uneasiness before Brúnel paused and curtseyed.

"If it pleases you, my lady, I will announce your arrival to Lord Boromir."

"Of course, Brúnel. Thankyou."

Smiling, the housekeeper tapped upon the door.

"Come in!" came the stern reply. Brúnel slipped inside, leaving the door ajar.

"Lady Elanor to see you, my lord."

"Thankyou, Brúnel. She is welcome to enter."

The housekeeper reappeared through the ebony archway and curtseyed once more. "I shall return to my duties, my lady."

Elanor smiled in thanks, and gently pushed the door open.

BREAK

Boromir watched as Elanor appeared, moving with graceful caution. As she made her entrance he was permitted a moment to study her, and took full advantage of the opportunity.

The particulars of their first meeting were vivid within his memory, stirred by the second peculiar encounter with her sister. Yet this Elanor of Rivendell bore no resemblance to the lady of Lands Unknown whom first he had been acquainted with. Her short-cropped hair had lengthened considerably, and the golden curls were striking amidst the almost uniformly-black tresses of Gondor. The attire which his housekeeper had provided suited her well; far better even than the raiment of Rivendell. She was clad in blue-grey silk which bore a beautifully-crafted pattern of birds and leaves. One of the maids had seen to her hair, and someone had acquired a silver circlet which sat in queenly fashion upon her brow. Her face, once so child-like, had filled out with months of plentiful food. Still, there was an edge to her jaw which he had not observed when she first appeared amidst the sea of grass the fall before. Her wide grey-green eyes were full of light and intelligence, but she had undoubtedly hardened and grown sterner than the helpless girl of their first meeting. The sight of her calm face and proud carriage pleased him, for he recalled all to well the vulnerability which had stirred fatherly pity in his heart.

"Lord Boromir," she said, her tone measured and even. Smiling slightly, she curtseyed.

Climbing to his feet from an armchair, Boromir bowed. "Lady Elanor. It is a pleasure to see you. I must beg pardon for my unseemly state when I returned in the company of your sister."

"Not at all, my lord, for the gratitude I felt at seeing her once more far outweighed all else."

Boromir's lips curled in amusement.

 _Her speech has grown fair and courteous indeed._

Elanor watched him silently for a moment, as if reciprocating his surveying of her. Still, her implacable features revealed little of her assessment of him.

"Is there aught you wish to speak to me of, my lord?" she asked after a moment, smiling slightly as she spoke.

Boromir nodded. "Will you make yourself comfortable, Lady Elanor?"

She thanked him, seating herself regally upon the lounge opposite whilst he returned to his armchair. Boromir would not have ever professed her to be a striking beauty, though as her countenance warmed she grew in his estimation. Her hair was admittedly very fine, and her smile compensated for any lack of perfection in her features. She would never compare to the loveliness of any of the Elven kindred whom Boromir had seen, nor had she the beauty of some of Minas Tirith's ladies. Nevertheless, she was memorable.

"Forgive me," he said, realising he had lapsed once more into silence. "The burden of the city weighs heavy upon me."

She smiled sympathetically. "Of course, my lord. You have my deepest sympathies for the passing of your father."

Boromir nodded in gruff thanks. He rubbed his palm with a roughened thumb. He had met the death of his father with surprising equanimity; his brother's quiet grief had been more poignant than his own sentiment. Perhaps it was not as it should be, yet he could find little compassion in his heart for the man—kin or no—who was responsible for Faramir's brush with death.

"I believe I ought to thank you for the safe conduct of my sister to the city, Lord Boromir," Elanor smiled, and her eyes were full of quiet kindness.

"It seems I am fated to save you both."

She laughed, the sound tinkling like a clear bell.

"We shall be forever indebted to you, my lord. I never believed that Georgia might have survived the ordeal, and it gladdened my heart immeasurably to find that you had encountered her. Nevertheless, I do not believe that you summoned me hither to elicit my thanks for your goodwill. What would you speak to me of, my lord?"

Boromir's grey eyes met hers for a moment, considering her keen glance and thoughtfulness. For a time, he had believed her undeserving of the esteem which Lord Elrond and his household bestowed upon her. Her moment of indiscretion that evening in the dim corridor had revolted him, and yet now he deeply regretted his coolness. She was young, indeed, but certainly not foolish; nor was she coarse.

 _Perhaps she and Faramir… they would not be unsuited to one another, though she is yet very young. Scarce more than twenty, if I recall… Still, it is the way of things in Gondor, and her temperament matches his quite well…_

"You are right once more, Lady Elanor," he said, tossing the notion aside. "This was not the purpose for which I called you. I will not tarry with elegant words, for there are duties to which I must attend. There are many things which strike me as peculiar, not least of which the fact that I stumbled upon both your sister and yourself by chance, and at so great a distance from one another."

The statement hung in the air a moment, and the corner of Elanor's mouth quirked.

"You ask no easy questions, my lord."

"And yet I would know the answers to them." He hesitated, then shifted slightly so he was sitting on the edge of the armchair, leaning forward. "Lady Elanor; will you not speak truly?"

She faltered, and then nodded. "If you desire it. I confess that the tale of the attack by the Wild-men is a falsehood, my lord, for Gandalf believed that tale to be a more palatable one than the truth. Yet it was not so, for I was transported by magic from a distant land; so it also appears, was my sister."

Boromir's stern features displayed little reaction to her announcement. He had journeyed for many weeks in the company of Gandalf the Grey, and it did not seem entirely improbable that such an event could have occurred. He knew little enough of the precise skills of wizards—Faramir had better understanding of such things—and chose not to question the assertion.

"From a land far to the south of here, you say?"

"Ye-es."

"It appears that the affairs of mortals are ever guided by the will of wizards," he sighed, frowning at the carpet. Glancing up, he asked, "Have you discovered aught of the path to your home, Lady Elanor? Perhaps a ship, sailing south, might—"

She smiled wistfully and shook her head. "No, my lord. I have no knowledge precisely where it lies, and would not wish to endanger any so, in sending them on such a perilous voyage."

"Might Gandalf be able to—?" He held out his hands. "Forgive me, I know very little of the workings of magic."

"As do I," she smiled. "I thank you, but I must decline. I am also unable to discover the peculiarity which drew both of us near to your path, though I am glad it was so. There is little honour in perishing in the wilds, alone."

Boromir lowered his gaze. The younger woman of house Ravenscroft had borne up better than Lady Elanor under the hardships of a lengthy journey on foot. Still, Lady Georgia lacked something which her sister possessed; Boromir felt quite unequal to pondering the precise details of this deficiency, though it lingered in his mind.

Glancing up, he studied Elanor's face once more. She appeared more at ease in his company than she ever had before, sitting quietly with a soft smile upon her countenance; for a moment he berated himself for neglecting the woman's acquaintance. There was an utter lack of the wily and coy in her manner, for which he was grateful. The courts of Minas Tirith were littered with sharp-eyed individuals of both sexes, bent on power and utterly taken up in the intrigue of politics. Whether Elanor was herself free of guile, or if the Elves had influenced her so, he could not tell; it was nonetheless refreshing, and made him think once more of his younger brother.

"Have you heard aught of the journey to Amon Hen, Lady Elanor?"

Her smile faded slightly at this, but she managed to elicit a light laugh. "A little, my lord. Lord Glorfindel conversed with me briefly on the matter. I confess I was gladdened to hear that your wounds were not mortal in the battle which occurred upon the banks of the Anduin."

"Indeed," he replied dryly, recalling vividly the unpleasantness of having an arrow embedded in his shoulder. He watched her sharply for a moment. "'Twas quite unnatural."

"Oh?" Elanor asked, an eyebrow raised.

 _Is she truly as ingenuous as she appears? For in that moment I was sure that I would die, and yet somehow fate was turned aside._

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I confess I had hoped you may have known more, Lady Elanor. Yet if it is not so, there is little point in pressing the matter. I am indebted to Lord Glorfindel—and Lord Aragorn."

Elanor's lips pressed together slightly. "Lord Aragorn is a skilled healer, my lord. He claims credit for the life of your brother."

"Then I owe him more than I first supposed," managed Boromir, attempting a smile.

Truth be told, he had professed little love for the Ranger. His father had been Steward, and he succeeded him at his post. It had been many years since Gondor had been ruled by a King, yet…

"Lord Aragorn will make an excellent king, Boromir," said Elanor softly, as if reading his thoughts.

His expression was scarce short of a scowl. "You speak boldly, lady; the armies of the West have yet to be declared triumphant against the power of Mordor. I confess I have little hope that it shall be so."

"Perhaps," she admitted, "yet it I would not speak if I did not believe it to be true."

Boromir clenched his teeth together. Many things troubled him, his position as Steward pushed aside in favour of more pressing, introspective concerns. In Rivendell, he had scorned Aragorn's claim to the throne. The man was noble enough, and had led the company well, but Boromir found himself protesting fiercely at the notion of a King ruling Gondor once more. His father had denied such developments; had not the Steward managed the affairs of the city well enough these many years? And then, there was the matter of the Ring…

 _Aragorn did what you could not._

It rankled with him, for lost in the pain of his wounds he had confessed his moment of weakness to the Heir of Isildur. Samwise had fled from his mindless wrath, and journeyed safely at least as far as Ithilien, where Faramir had hastened him onwards. There was no guarantee that Gondor would prevail, but were it to be so, the sons of Denethor would be required to step aside in favour of Aragorn as King.

 _Faramir would make a better Steward than I, for the blood of Númenor flows more strongly in his veins, as it does in Aragorn's… He was not overcome by this weakness!_

As he raised his head, Boromir realised that Elanor was watching him with tender pity in her eyes. He was again struck by the uncomfortable sensation that perhaps she could read his mind.

"What do you think on, my lord?" she inquired.

Boromir snorted dryly. "You are well-spoken, Lady Elanor, and correct in your assessment; Lord Aragorn shall rule justly and well, and I would not hinder him. I—" The words died in his throat, strangled by his fierce sense of dignity. He could not admit his weakness, even in the face of Elanor's compassion; he was ever the son of Denethor, fuelled by pride and a longing for power. Yet something stirred within him, so confronted was he by a sudden awareness of the extent of his faults. He spoke almost without thinking: "I will not maintain the Stewardship for long, my lady. I intend to abdicate in Faramir's favour."

Elanor's countenance registered her great surprise, swiftly replaced by a peculiar expression of admiration. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then hesitated a moment. Finally, she smiled.

"You are both wise and strong, my lord; a weak man could not make such a choice."

The statement was rather unexpected, and it took Boromir a moment to regain his implacable guise.

 _How does she…_

"You have my thanks, Lady Elanor," he replied gruffly, severely unsettled. He rose from his chair. "Still, Faramir remains in the care of the Warden, and the city must be governed in his absence, or until Aragorn returns to claim kingship. I must beg leave to return to my duties."

Elanor smiled as she stood. "Of course, my lord."

Boromir bowed swiftly, barely acknowledging the curtsey she did in return, and strode towards the door. He held it open as she swept out, a knowing expression still written upon her features. With a soft "farewell", she was gone, and he closed the door behind her.

* * *

 **Happy 35 chapters guys!**

 **I know there is a gin _ormous_ chunk of Elanor dialoguing with Georgia in the middle of this chapter, but I really felt it was necessary for her to verbalise her feelings about the journey. Honestly, I feel like once I finish this fic I'm going to have to go back over and edit the heck out of a lot of it.**

 **Then there's the rather-intense Boromir POV conversation. I wanted him to abdicate the Stewardship of the city, because a) Faramir will do a great job of it, and b) occasionally the book likes to reassert it's dominance. I think this is an important part of Boromir's growth, coming to recognise that his desire for power (rather like Denethor's) could drive him to ruin, but choosing to get out before it does him harm. Boromir isn't a central character in the story, but as he finds both Elanor and Georgia I thought it was important to include a bit of information about what happens to him after he arrives back in Minas Tirith.**

 **I would super appreciate it if you as the readers would consider reviewing with your thoughts on Elanor's character development; I have read over a few older chapters and in some parts I'm really happy with how she's progressed. In others, I feel disgusted with her haha. Feel free to voice your opinion on the subject. Ultimately, she's imperfect but I don't want her turning Mary Sue. She's not perfect, by a long shot. She's still super focused on the people that matter to her, and not so much on the outcome of Middle-earth as a whole (because she doesn't really feel Sauron's nastiness).**

 **Anyways, I'm just holding my 140k word creation and looking at the mess I've created and wondering whether I should go back and clean it up, or charge on and hope for the best. D:**

 **Thanks for your support. :)**

 **Finwe.**


	36. Sunstar and Golden Flower

**Chapter 36 - Sunstar and Golden Flower**

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: 1. Many of the segments of this story are taken directly from Tolkien's work. Full credit goes to him for these; I make no pretence at claiming them.**

 **2\. I am, unfortunately, going on hiatus for a few days - perhaps a week. I'm trying to focus on my study as exams are coming up soon. I don't have a stack of work to get done, but I think I need to take a break from fanfic-ing (as I have been doing some intensive writing over the last few days) and get my priorities sorted. It's been fun doing such a big writing stint - and I promise to return soon! More details at the end.**

 **3. _THANKYOU_ to those who took the time to leave such lovely reviews in the last few days; I received some truly lovely feedback and feel super blessed to have so many people reading my work. :)**

 **Now...**

 **Enjoy the long-awaited scenes! :D**

* * *

 **25th March, 3019 (Third Age)**

Elanor stretched out her slender limbs until she was sprawled across the width of the bed. The sheets were cool to the touch, clinging to her damp, feverish skin. The watery sunlight was just cresting the mountains to the east, a welcome sight. She sighed. Her eyes were darkly shadowed, and her once-tanned face pale. Her sleep had been interrupted, tossing and turning from one side of the bed to the other.

 _Today's the day. Today we'll know if…_

 _But what if… there aren't any guarantees…_

She rolled over until she was facing the direction of Mordor, her chest tight with anxiety. This last night before the dawn was by far the worst Elanor had known. Her bed was a rock-hard stretch of barren land, lonely and comfortless. Every arrangement of her slender form was beset with aches, and her arms and legs a frenzy of restlessness. For many hours she had wept, wishing with every facet of her being that Glorfindel were beside her, strong arms holding her close, and not about to ride to battle.

 _I just want him home… I may be completely selfish, and care nothing for the fate of the rest of Middle-earth, as long as I get Glorfindel back… there is no shadow, I don't feel… there is… nothing… nothing save loneliness, and longing…_

Her own egocentric behaviour was repulsive, yet Elanor could find nothing in herself to counter it. She had lost her family and lover once already; she could not bear to do so again. For days she had worn her mask well, chaperoning Georgia as she marvelled at the delights of Minas Tirith, and speaking with Boromir on occasion. The previous evening, Elanor had retired early, unable to put aside her fear any longer. Falling into bed, she had endured the night in agitation and solitude.

Sitting up, Elanor rubbed her face. Weariness was like a constant ache, but she could not sleep; would not, until this day were over. Climbing out of her bed, she moved to the wardrobe like a white-clad wraith, her nightgown flowing behind her. A moment later she had stripped to the skin, shivering as she donned the silky undergarments of Gondor. She tugged upon the bell then, summoning a maid without paying any heed to the hour. Settling onto a chair to wait, she began to pull her hair from it's braid, fingers moving thoughtlessly through the curls.

 _Today. Today is the first piece of news, and then…_

 _How long must I wait for sight of him again, if he indeed still lives? A week? Two weeks? Three? I cannot bear to…_

A gentle rap upon her door was heard then, and Elanor bid the serving woman enter. The maid smiled demurely despite the early hour, and helped secure Elanor's corset with deft efficiency. When her gown was laced and hair pinned, she bid the woman depart. The mirror beside the wardrobe showed a lady tired and weary, yet proud and determined. Elanor tugged a heavy mantle about her shoulders and swept out of her chambers.

As she passed out of the Citadel to the walls, a great gust of wind snatched at her raiment. No tidings had yet come, and all hearts were darkened. The weather, too, was bright no longer. It was cold. A wind that had sprung up in the night was blowing now keenly from the North, and it was rising; but the lands about looked grey and drear.

Standing upon the wall, Elanor clutched at the stone parapet as the wind clawed through her thick clothing. She looked northward, above the grey hither lands, into the eye of the cold wind where far away the sky was hard and clear. Her heart was heavy within her chest, and despite her anxiety her thoughts were still. There were no paths of the mind which remained untrod, and she had no desire to revisit the many concerns troubling her.

All other thoughts were banished from her mind, save one phrase which ran like a broken record: _Eru, let them be saved_. Every fibre of her consciousness was thrown skyward as she pleaded with this God who she did not quite believe existed. The prayer blotted out all else, as she lost her very self in the robotic echo.

For what felt like hours, Elanor embraced the fury of the breeze. Her body shook with chills, yet she could not relinquish her vigil. Some time after the sun had cleared the eastern mountains, she heard the sound of soft footsteps. A tousled brown head appeared at her elbow, small face uplifted to gaze over the landscape.

Merry did not question her, nor did he make idle conversation. In quiet companionship, woman and hobbit stood together, scarcely aware of one another in their own unease.

"I stand upon some dreadful brink," whispered Merry at length, "and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom."

"Yes, we wait for the stroke of doom," sighed Elanor. And they said no more; and it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neither wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

Though Elanor was not filled with dread by the menace which lingered in the east, every moment seemed a lifetime. And as she and Merry stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it, comforting one another in the absence of those closest to them. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that above the ridges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of darkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightnings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth, and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

Every pulse of blood flowing through Elanor's veins screamed _Glorfindel!_ and her mind knew naught else in that moment. As she waited, full of desperate hope, other voices were added to the cacophony: _Elladan… Elrohir… Gandalf… Aragorn… Éomer… Eärendur… Legolas… Sam… Gimli… Pippin…_

 _God, can't you just finish this!_ her mind screamed, every nerve stretched to the point of fraying. _Bring an end! Let them live! If they are to perish in the saving of Middle-earth, I no longer wish to remain; if we are to succeed and I must live, save them also!_

And as she stood, Elanor began to cry. Tears rolled unheeded down her pale cheeks. This burden, this war—it had been thrust upon her, and she could not help but feel she was unequal to the task. The world was surreal; she had dwelt upon Arda for many months, and yet the notion that she was in another world and facing the end of all things was so bizarre that her mind could not wrap it's feeble tendrils around it. It was one thing to accept the people of Middle-earth as home, but the brooding possibility of an apocalypse and death for the mass innocent was too vast for her to conceive. Instead she bent her thought upon those who mattered to her, for even if this world was alien and impossible—love was not. Love could be grasped, felt, embraced; love was all that remained to her, and she would bind herself to it as long as those whom she loved endured.

"Do you think that darkness is coming, Merry? Darkness inescapable?" Elanor asked, her voice low and filled with sorrow.

The hobbit turned to her, his own face damp, and yet a light was in his eyes. "No," he said, looking up at her. "I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says no, and all of my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. I do not believe that any darkness will endure, Lady Elanor." And with that he squeezed her hand.

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, brown and golden, danced upon the breeze. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

And before the Sun had fallen far from the noon out of the East there came a great Eagle flying, and he bore tidings beyond hope from the Lords of the West, crying:

 _Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,  
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,  
and the Dark Tower is thrown down._

 _Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,  
for your watch hath not been in vain,  
and the Black Gate is broken,  
and your King hath passed through,  
and he is victorious._

 _Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,  
for your King shall come again,  
and he shall dwell among you  
all the days of your life._

 _And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,  
and he shall plant it in the high places,  
and the City shall be blessed._

 _Sing all ye people!_

And the people sang in all the ways of the City. But while this message of hope was proclaimed, Elanor bid Merry a half-hearted farewell and slipped back towards the Citadel. A maidservant informed her that Lady Georgia was in her suite, desiring to speak with her.

Blinded by tears, Elanor muttered a hasty excuse to avoid company and stumbled into her own chambers. Body shaking, she fell upon the sofa. These tidings brought no reassurance of her friends' survival, and yet she could not help the welling up of relief which calmed her spirit. For some time she sobbed, and when she could weep no more she rose and washed her face.

 _So the first battle is won_ , _and now—we wait once more._

She knew she out to be glad beyond measure, and whilst she heard the glad rejoicing within Minas Tirith, Elanor's heart was not yet at rest.

 _I'm so… selfish and worrisome and cowardly… why can't I be glad simply that the battle is won, as Merry and Éowyn are?_

The question was met with silence, and she sighed heavily. She would go to her sister, and to the others who dwelt in the City, and she would be joyful for their sake because there seemed naught else to do; still her heart would not be satisfied until a certain golden-haired Elf held her in her arms, and several others stood behind him ready to do the same.

* * *

The days that had followed the triumph of the Lords of the West were golden, and Spring and Summer joined and made revel together in the fields of Gondor. And tidings now came by swift riders from Cair Andros of all that was done, and the City made ready for the coming of the King. Faramir did not go, for now being healed he took upon him his authority and the Stewardship, graciously given by his brother, although it was only for a little while and his duty was to prepare for the one who should replace him.

For Elanor, the interlude was full of desperate impatience. The flood of good news brought no tidings of Glorfindel, though a message from Lord Aragorn on behalf of her foster-brothers pronounced their survival at the very least. A summons had come with this message, bidding that Elanor ride with the wains to Osgiliath and thence by ship to Cair Andros. Full of trepidation, she had prepared to depart. Merry had also been summons, and whilst Éowyn remained with Faramir, she had been reluctant to leave Georgia behind. Thus, the younger Miss Ravenscroft had been assigned a horse, and joined the fifty-mile journey to the Field of Cormallen.

The first day of their journey had been utter torture, during which Elanor longed to kick Fundanár into his light-footed gallop. The carts bearing great stores of goods, intended for the triumphant army, moved with a blithe disregard for the peculiar woman's impatience. They had then boarded an elegant ship, leaving Fundanár regretfully behind, and journeyed north upriver. They were escorted by a small company of soldiers, comprised from the mixed garrison left behind to defend Minas Tirith, under orders from Lord Boromir.

 _He did not have to give you an escort, you know… you're not technically, well… anybody._

Elanor glanced down at the deck of the ship upon which she stood. The boat rose and dropped with the swell caused by the fresh spring breeze which also tousled her hair as she lingered near the rail.

 _Too be honest, I didn't even really spare half a second for that…_

She had been received by Boromir on more than one occasion in his private suite over the previous days, and though she had hardly been in the mood for social calls, there was something comforting in the gruff companionship of the almost-Steward. For an instant she had contemplated that perhaps her behaviour all those months ago in the corridor had stirred some deeper feeling than friendship within the elder son of Denethor.

 _Rubbish_ , she told herself. _I would be a poor choice politically, for I have no connexions to speak of, and I am almost twenty years his junior! He could be my father!_

 _…coming from the woman who professes to love an Elf several thousand years old?_

She pushed that notion aside. To all intents and purposes, Glorfindel looked like a man of twenty-five to thirty at most; with all of Elanor's reading on the previous ages of Middle-earth and university-acquired knowledge, it was possible to forget the extensive age-gap. Boromir, on the other hand, wore every day of his forty years, perhaps due to the many years of fighting he had endured both on the battlefield and in the home. It had taken Elanor but a moment to discern that the relationship between Boromir and Denethor had been strained at best, despite the father's pride in his eldest son.

 _Besides, if Glorfindel doesn't have a problem with the age gap, neither do I…_

 _Well what happens when you grow old and die and he lives on forever?_

 _…I'm certain Boromir doesn't have a thing for me. He was merely being kind, and it was thoughtful of him. He's ensured that I appear as someone of rank, of importance. Considering all that he's already done for me—and that I embarrassed him properly by drunk-kissing him—it was exceedingly lovely…_

 _That's not the point! We're not talking about Boromir, we're talking about an Elf…_

Elanor gripped the rail with white hands.

 _It's just another thing I can talk to Glorfindel about when I get there, if he's…_

She shook her head to cut off the thought. Glancing to her right, she saw Georgia speaking with Merry at the rail further towards the stern of the ship. Her sister's countenance was brightly animated, and the hobbit seemed in good spirits also. Whether the conversation was appropriately guarded or not, Elanor did not know; and, as she returned to her perusal of the river's gleaming surface, she found she did not care. Georgia was a secondary concern to reaching the side of her beloved.

 _If he's alive._

 _Can you stop with the fatalistic comments already?_

As the sun arced overhead from east to west, Elanor kept her lookout upon the Anduin to the north. She had very little idea about how long it took to traverse the fifty miles from Minas Tirith to the Field of Cormallen in North Ithilien, but any length of time was too long in her mind.

* * *

Elanor trod carefully upon the gangplank, placing each foot with precision so as to avoid tripping and falling headlong towards the bank of the river. Before her walked Merry, chatting as befit his nature with one of the soldiers of Gondor who accompanied them. Georgia walked at her right hand, hazel eyes busily taking in all that she could, and behind were two more soldiers, one of Gondor and one of Rohan.

The ship had docked upon the eastern shore of the Anduin. The sand of the bank met a stretch of green grass, and thus became a cluster of beech trees. Through their young leaves the noonday sun glimmered, green and gold. all the air was full of a sweet mingled scent.

Elanor's heart thudded within her chest. Her eyes, wearied from lack of sleep, took in the fragrant beauty of Ithilien as though it were surreal. The strip of beech trees was sparse, and through it Elanor observed a wide green land. Behind them lay a wooded isle—Cair Andros. She felt distinctly light-headed as her slippers trod the springy grass.

Merry and the Gondorian soldier led the way past the thin screen of beech trees to the meadow, and upon it were passing some other men-at-arms. They were clad in various degrees of armour, milling about upon the green or in company with one another. There were not a great many, but Elanor spied other glimmers of plate armour amongst the trees surrounding the meadow, along with rows of snowy white tents. It appeared that the majority of the army were at rest, regathering their strength within the camp rather than standing to attention.

Georgia's gaze roved about the meadow as they crossed, busily drinking in these heroes of the war. Elanor's grey-green eyes were fixed directly ahead, for across the stretch of emerald grass the trees resumed, and amidst them was an archway which led through the well-tended greenwood. As they stepped beneath the boughs, the path wound beside a flower-bordered stream, bubbling merrily. Beyond was another grassy space, this a smaller lawn, bordered by dark-leaved trees laden with scarlet blossom.

About this lawn was positioned many tents, bearing the various standards of the leaders of the Armies of the West. Foremost among these was the banner prepared for Lord Aragorn by Lady Arwen, and to it's left was a white horse running free upon a field, and to the right, silver upon blue, a ship swan-prosed faring on the sea.

These three pavilions were divided in two halves, the front being a sitting room of sorts and open to the sweet air which flowed across the lawn. There were several other tents pitched about, presumably belonging to the various commanders—and, Elanor hoped, her foster-brothers and Glorfindel.

As the company of half a dozen reached the brink of the lawn, a tall golden-haired man stepped moved forward to greet them. Half an instant's observation revealed to Elanor that this was not Glorfindel, but Éomer, and his eyes roved between halfling, soldiers and the pair of women.

The Rohirric soldier at the rear of the company saluted the new King of Rohan.

"My Lord Éomer," he said.

"Léod; where is my sister, the Lady of Rohan, if not in Ithilien?"

Elanor barely managed to stop herself from frowning with impatience. Éomer's brow was lowered, and though he appeared tall and kingly as he stood before them, she had no desire to listen to his tirade about Éowyn's absence. She knew perfectly well that Éowyn had elected to remain behind, conflicted about her feelings towards both Aragorn and Faramir. Having encountered Éomer's pride and suspicion on more than one occasion, it took all of her self-control to bite her tongue. She cared nothing for the moody king's tantrums.

 _He's already wary because I dwell in the company of Elves; no need to make things worse,_ she reminded herself. Above this mental remark was a musical yet haunting chant: _Glorfindel._

"Lady Éowyn bid me bear these tidings, my lord: that she would remain within the White City, awaiting your return, for she elected to dwell a little longer in the Houses of Healing."

Éomer's frown deepened, and he gave a curt nod.

"Thankyou, Léod."

He glanced past the soldier to those who stood behind, and seemed to see them for the first time.

"Lady Elanor; Master Meriadoc; it is well you have come." His sharp blue eyes turned to Georgia then, and gave her an appraising stare.

"Thankyou, your Majesty," replied Elanor, her tone rather snide as she dropped a fleeting curtsey. "This is Lady Georgia, my sister."

Éomer's frown did not lighten, and after another moment he inclined his head. "You are welcome, Lady Georgia; it pleases me to meet one of Lady Elanor's kindred."

Elanor braced herself internally for a gross faux pas, but was pleasantly disappointed. Georgia curtseyed gracefully and smiled up at King Éomer through her thick lashes.

"I am honoured, my lord."

Éomer made a low _hmph_ sound in his throat before returning his attention to Elanor. "The Lords Elladan and Elrohir occupy a tent upon the eastern side of the lawn, my lady; behind the pavilion belonging to Lord Aragorn."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Elanor smiled. "Thankyou, my Lord King."

Éomer bowed rather than mincing words, and strode off in the direction from whence they had come. Feeling as if she would scream if she had to bother with the courtly courtesies any longer, Elanor smiled to the soldiers who stood nearby.

"Thankyou for escorting us thus far; my sister and I shall no longer be in need of your protection."

"As you wish, my lady," said the one whom Éomer had called Léod. The three men departed in various directions.

"Where are you heading, Merry?" Georgia inquired of the hobbit.

"I don't rightly know," he replied, glancing around. "I suppose I will go in search of Pippin, but I'm unsure of where he is, precisely."

Georgia smiled. "That's all right, you can come with us."

 _Great. Thanks Georgia._

"Come," Elanor said instead, striding forward. Few people stood upon this smaller stretch of grass. The Prince of Dol Amroth could be seen within the outer part of his pavilion, but Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. Striding past his tent with little regard for Georgia and Merry following, Elanor's bleary eyes sought for sight of her foster-brother's dark heads.

Many smaller tents were pitched behind those of the Kings and Prince. Elanor felt her stomach begin to flutter with anxiety, and her heart was palpitating as if she had been running. Rounding the corner, she plunged headlong into a dark-haired figure: Legolas.

"Aiya! it is Elanor!" he cried, catching her hands up in his. His waist-length brown hair floated behind him like a satiny mane, and his cerulean eyes sparkled. "Here is a surprise most welcome and yet unlooked for!"

"Legolas," Elanor smiled through her weariness, as the merry Elf twirled her once around. "I am pleased to see you safe and well."

"And I you!" he laughed. Glancing over her shoulder, he noticed Georgia and Merry. "And Master Meriadoc! A joy multiplied. Yet I am afraid I know not the identity of the fair one who accompanies you both." Releasing one of Elanor's hands, he stepped towards Georgia. "What is your name, lady?"

Georgia was grinning broadly. "I am Georgia; Elanor's sister."

Legolas's face registered his great surprise. "Your sister, Elanor! 'Tis a glad day indeed! The Shadow is vanquished, and your family hath been returned to you. I am delighted to meet you, Lady Georgia. I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, of the Woodland Realm." With that he bowed, twisting his fingers in a gesture of greeting common amongst the Elves.

 _I've never been able to manage that one_ , Elanor mused.

 _C'mon Elanor, focus! Where on earth is Glorfindel…_

Georgia laughed, her cheeks bright. Holding up her right hand with palm flat, she separated her pointer and index fingers from the fourth and pinkie. Elanor could have buried her face in the turf knowing her younger sister had just greeted Prince Legolas with the Vulcan salute.

Legolas, however, took this in his stride, and attempted to mimic the gesture. "I am not well acquainted with the courtesies of your people, Lady Georgia," he smiled, though his deft fingers formed the sign easily enough.

That lady sniggered, stealing a mischievous glance at Elanor. "I can teach you later, don't worry. We have lots of gestures Elanor may not have taught you."

 _Eru save me…_

Wanting to slap her sister, scream, cry and fall asleep all at once, Elanor touched Legolas gently upon the arm.

"I hate to shorten this joyous greeting Legolas, but would you be so kind as to bring me to my foster-brothers? I desire to see them."

The Elf nodded, several strands of russet-coloured hair slipping over one shoulder. "Of course; you must long to be reunited." He looked at Elanor a moment longer than necessary, his blue eyes twinkling, and then gestured in the direction they should go.

 _Does he know…?_

 _How could he, unless Glorfindel has told him?_

 _Well, he might have, you never know… maybe they get all deep and meaningful when they're faced with the possibility of death…_

Elanor was rapidly losing any concern for propriety or for ceremony. Hurrying that they might lower the chances of meeting anyone else, she stumbled towards the opening to the tent which Legolas had indicated. A grey-cloaked Ranger stood near the door, but she paid him no heed; brushing the flap aside, Elanor nearly fell inside.

Four figures were seated upon mismatched chairs; two identical Elves crowned with raven hair facing the tent door, a dark head that Elanor did not recognise from behind—and a golden-haired lord who also sat with his back to her.

 _He's alive! He's alive! He's alive!_

Her knees grew weak as the song of utter delight and triumph filled her being. Her mind echoed with the harmonious chorus—Glorfindel was alive and well.

 _And Elrohir! And Elladan! And Legolas!_

"Elanor!" cried Elladan, rising from his chair so hastily that it fell over. Elrohir joined him on his feet, scarcely a second behind his twin.

Elanor faced those she called brothers, yet her gaze moved unconsciously to the golden-haired figure who had whirled to face her as fast as he could manage. For an instant her eyes met his, and she saw in Glorfindel's handsome face the light of relief, joy—and love.

Then she was seized by the sons of Elrond, who in their delight at the victory over Sauron and pleasure at seeing her seemed to disregard all propriety. Elladan seized her about the waist, whirling her up and about like a dancer in some kind of movie. A moment later Elrohir had clutched her hand and embraced her in his turn. The fourth man within the tent—whom Elanor recognised as being Halbarad's second-in-command when she saw his face—seemed utterly different when a smile lightened his weathered countenance.

"And who is this?" Elladan smiled, leaving Elanor to Elrohir and half-dancing towards Georgia.

"I am Georgia, Elanor's sister," the latter heard her say, mirth in her tone as Elrond's sons frolicked forth in joy.

"It is good to see you, nethig," Elrohir smiled, drawing Elanor back to her present state. The younger of the twins looked down upon her radiant eyes—an expression she was unaccustomed to observing upon him. Despite the tension within her, the sight of Elrohir's unbridled exuberance was not without effect. She laughed merrily, relieved to see him safe, well and as full of childlike delight as the other Elves she had known in Rivendell.

"And you, brother," she replied, thinking how different the manner of his greeting was to the stern departure of the days previous.

He shot Elanor an expression of amazement as he moved to join Elladan in welcoming Georgia. She watched in weary amusement as her foster-brothers greeted her younger sister in their ebullient manner, before moving on to Merry. The hobbit stood about with an air of supreme contentment as the sons of Elrond proclaimed their utmost pleasure at seeing him once more.

A gentle touch on Elanor's sleeve caused her to turn around.

Glorfindel stood before her, his blue eyes fixed upon her face. Elanor returned his stare wide-eyed, taking in the sight of his chiseled jaw and fine cheeks, the straight nose and well-formed brow. His long golden hair was fastened back, and he was clad in Elvish tunic which accentuated the clear colour of his eyes.

Without breaking stares, he reached for her hand. Gently, he drew it to his mouth and kissed it, warm lips brushing her hand and causing shivers to pass down her arm. He did not speak, every emotion transfixed in one loving look.

Elanor's knees promptly gave out, causing her to stumble and nearly end sitting on the grass floor of the pavilion. Glorfindel caught her halfway to the ground, strong arms grasping her shoulders and drawing her back to her feet.

"Are you well, sister?" inquired Elladan, anxiously, moving hastily to her side and brushing her cheek with his hand. She nodded, finding that suddenly her eyes were full of tears.

"I—I'm fine, Elladan. I just—I need a breath of fresh air. I am very tired," she added, in explanation, and whilst the Elf did not look entirely convinced, he nodded. "Please, do not be anxious on my behalf. I just need—I need a moment. If I could just go outside—"

Her mind was spinning desperately, as if it balanced upon a needlepoint and teetered precariously in every direction. Her legs did not appear to want to do her bidding, as every hour of lost sleep caught up with her in a sudden rush. It was as if a great damming up of water had been released at this sudden removal of tension, pouring forth in an uncheckable wave. The giddy relief at seeing those she cared about safe and well was enough to utterly bewilder her. And thus, to the great concern of the others within the tent, Glorfindel half carried her to the entrance.

"I shall attend her; do not trouble yourself, Elladan," Glorfindel said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance despite his nearness.

"Do you want me to come?" Georgia inquired, stepping forward as if she would join them.

"Nay, lady," came a new voice; Legolas had entered without Elanor realising. "I am sure she shall recover best in solitude."

Feeling as if she could hug Legolas for his tact, Elanor allowed herself to be led falteringly to the door of the tent. Her vision blurred dangerously, but Glorfindel had an arm positioned about her shoulders and waist. As the brighter light of the meadow assaulted her vision, Elanor dropped to her knees. She shook uncontrollably, bent halfway into the foetal position upon the turf.

A gentle hand slipped itself about her waist and beneath her knees, and an instant later Glorfindel had scooped her into his arms. Elanor squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to block out the light. Her head throbbed.

It was not long before her vision was darkened, and a little time after that ere she realised that they had passed into shade. She begged her eyes to open, and reluctantly they obliged.

She was lying on her back, and about her vision was a frame of blossoming flowers. A tree stretched protectively above her, and foremost within her sight was a concerned face bearing traces of tears which bent over her, cradling her head.

"Glorfindel—" she croaked, reaching up to his face.

"Elanor."

She struggled to sit, and a capable arm aided her. Pulling her legs towards her, Elanor took a deep breath. The fresh air had revived her somewhat, and she was so glad merely to sit upon the springy grass. Glorfindel's arm supported her, and as her eyes regained their focus she realised that he had carried her to the edge of the grove, twenty metres or so from the tents.

And then she turned to his face.

Tears sprang to her vision as she drank in the sight of him, blurring all her senses until she could see nothing more than the golden outline she loved so much. She felt the fingers of one hand brush her chin, the other stroking her shoulder as he knelt at her right shoulder. Elanor pressed her eyes shut, his feather-light touch causing her heart to swell within her chest. He reached up to dust the tears away.

"Elanor," he repeated, fingers moving across her cheek to the line of her jaw.

She opened her eyes.

He was looking at her with such earnestness that she was scarcely able to quell another rush of tears. The utter devotion in her face was more than she could bear. In it was written everything she had missed and longed for; the loss of her boyfriend and subsequent loneliness, and the aching pain added by the repeated goodbyes.

 _He's alive. And he's here._

 _And he loves me!_

She smiled then, reaching out with her own hands to grasp his face, one on either side of his jaw. Everything about him was perfection as he leaned closer, whispering her name as their faces drew close. His aroma mingled with the scents of Ithilien, a heady smell which almost sent her dizzy once again. They sat for some time, unmoving; the lady sitting with her legs askew beneath her voluminous skirts, and the fair Elven-lord kneeling by her side.

Tucking a strand of hand behind her ear, Glorfindel smiled.

"May I kiss you, Elanor?"

Elanor opened her mouth to speak, but her voice failed her. She nodded in response. Then her cheeks flushed pink and she looked down, feeling unexpectedly shy as she looked at the handsome Elf before her.

Glorfindel laughed softly and leaned slightly closer. For a moment they hesitated, faces so close that his breath was her own; then he pressed his lips against hers, ever so softly and then with growing firmness. Elanor shifted so her legs were drawn beneath her and she kneeled facing him. She let her hands crawl down his neck and into his hair, marvelling at its silkiness as his kisses intoxicated her.

Barely a second later, Glorfindel slipped one hand behind her head and gently ended the kiss.

Elanor's stomach felt as if a fleet of butterflies had been set loose there, soaring about with flagrant disregard for the fact that insects were not supposed to dwell in one's digestive system. As Glorfindel moved back from her, hands retreating from her back and hair so they clutched her fingers, Elanor closed her eyes.

When she could finally look upon him once more, she gave a watery smile.

"Forgive me; I did not think to inquire if you were well," she laughed weakly.

"I am well," he replied, squeezing her fingers. "Though I was not quite so until I saw you, dearest Ellie."

 _How did I live without him before now..._

She drew one of his hands upward until it was sandwiched between her own fingers and her cheek.

"I love you," she whispered. "I'm so glad you're alive, and I love you."

Glorfindel laughed merrily, removing his fingers from her cheek and clasping both of her hands together between them in his jubilance.

"I love you too, Lady Sunstar."

* * *

 **So I couldn't *not* include the Elanor-Glorfindel reunion in this chapter! Seeing as I'm going away for a few days to a week, I didn't want to leave you all in suspense. There's nothing more frustrating than a cliffhanger just before the two elements of a ship get together! So out of sympathy I chose not to put you in that position by uploading this now, and satisfying the completion of this Glorfanor vessel.**

 **Basically, this was hard to write. I didn't want Elanor to have too convenient a reunion with Glorfindel, nor did I want to draw it out unbearably. I hope I made it an appropriate length, covering her desperate conversations with the others whom she values before moving on to her encounter with her love. ^_^**

 **I really hope the characterisation of Elanor, Georgia and all of the others is ok in this one; I was pretty tired when I wrote and edited it, but I don't really know what else to do. I honestly can't think of any other way to have them reunited, and I struggled to even compile this to begin with. I dreamed about it last night because I was so wrapped up in trying to figure out how my heroine and her love would behave when they saw one another again.**

 **Anyways, really hope you enjoyed it. Let me know if you have any strong opinions or critiques of the writing/plot elements. :)**

 **I hope you all have a great time, and I'll be back in a week or so.**

 **Thanks team!**

 **Finwe.**


	37. The calm after the storm

**Chapter 37 - The calm after the storm**

* * *

Elanor flushed bright pink and smiled at the grass.

"Can you stand?" inquired the one sitting beside her upon the ground, climbing to his feet with all of the easy grace which characterised his race.

She glanced up at Glorfindel, who held out his hands to help her to her feet. Nodding, Elanor took them and allowed him to pull her upwards. Whether by accident or intention, he exerted enough force to propel her into his chest. He released her hands and hugged her fiercely for a moment, head lowered so his face was pressed against her hair.

Elanor laughed; his mix of gravity and childlike playfulness was quite bewitching.

When he released her—though not until he had planted a smiling kiss upon her hair—Elanor looked up at him once more.

"Do you feel well again, vána?"

"Much better," she admitted; her head no longer spun with dizziness and cold dread had been replaced with a fluttery feeling of delight in the pit of her stomach. Half an hour's sitting on the grass with her head on Glorfindel's shoulder had done wonders for her composure. "Shall we return to the others? We have been away some time, and I fear they will begin to grow suspicious if we linger too long."

Glorfindel grinned. "And if they do?"

"I shall mind very little," she returned laughingly.

"Good." He glanced back towards Elladan and Elrohir's tent a moment before his blue eyes returned to Elanor's face. His countenance grew serious. "I fear that this speech be ill-timed, nor are my words as fair as they ought to be. I pray I do not presume too much, for your history and your world is peculiar, Lady Ravenscroft. And yet I would speak nonetheless, knowing full well that your response may not be as I wish it to be; if you desire it, I would wed thee."

Elanor stared at him blankly for a moment.

 _Did he just ask…_

 _Your first proposal; an Elf, in a forest in Middle-earth. That's pretty impressive._

 _Shut-up! He just asked me to marry him!_

… _it's not what I had dreamed of as a child… it was always Tim, it was always so perfectly planned and anticipated and it certainly wasn't storybook Glorfindel…_

 _You're here. Come on, you've thrown your other life completely away! There's no time for humming and thumb-twiddling when a man who is in no way second to Tim—and whom you love!—asks you to be his wife._

 _But with Georgia here, can I really—_

 _Just shut-up and say yes!_

"Glorfindel—of course," she said, tugging her face into a smile. "Of course. Though—there are quite a few things that will need to be discussed. I mean—"

"Elanor," he interrupted, his tone quiet and yet full of unwavering affection. "If your sister's reappearance and a longing for home are causes for concern; that is, if you do not wish to remain in Middle-earth… I love you; that much I have declared openly. Yet I would not hold you here against your will. Your happiness is of utmost importance to me, vána."

 _And you were hesitating!_

"No, no," she cried, pressing her face into his chest for a moment. "I did not mean to appear uncertain, not at all! I just—you are an Elf, Glorfindel, and I am mortal. Isn't that—won't that be… well, problematic?"

He appeared to soften a little in relief. "If I say it matters not to me, will you believe me?"

"I'll try," Elanor admitted, with a laugh. "Though I do not see how it couldn't matter; I'm going to die in another sixty to seventy years."

Glorfindel's eyes flickered away for a moment, and she decided not to press the issue.

"There'll be time to talk about everything else later, though," she smiled. "My answer is yes, however; I will marry you Glorfindel of Gondolin, if you will have me."

The Elf laughed. "Gladly."

* * *

Ten minutes later—during which time the pair had kissed several times and walked very slowly—Elanor and Glorfindel returned to their other companions. The Elf had elicited a promise from her that they should walk together beneath the stars that evening before consenting to escort her back to her sister and foster-brothers.

"Elanor!" exclaimed Georgia, as they re-entered the tent. "Are you all right? I was just about to come looking for you!" She hurried over to Elanor's side, genuine concern showing upon her countenance.

Still feeling flushed and exhilarated, Elanor forced her expression to appear more neutral.

"I feel a good deal better," she replied evenly, keeping her gaze on Georgia's face rather than allowing it to wander with Glorfindel's movements. She was not entirely successful, however; Georgia raised a knowing eyebrow, but had the good grace not to say anything, except:

"Well, you _look_ a lot better…"

"I fear we have overlooked you, nethig," smiled Elladan, offering an arm to each of the Ravenscroft sisters and leading them towards the chairs placed about the tent. Several more had been acquired to accommodate the larger group; the Ranger had also departed.

"Things are ever full of bewilderment, even following triumph in war," Elanor replied, eyes twinkling. "I shall forgive you, Elladan, if you promise to find me nourishment; I cannot recall the last time I ate amongst such a merry gathering of friends!"

Her foster-brother seemed satisfied with the recovery of her spirits then, for after depositing her in a chair he darted away to call upon a servant.

It was an exceedingly cheerful party that sat around the cool tent for the hours following; Elladan and Elrohir cast aside all traces of their former grimness, for the Lord Aragorn's victory also signified great joy for Arwen. Despite the knowledge that it should mean their parting, the twins were happy for their sister. Legolas, implacably bright-eyed and cheery, laughed heartily as he conversed with Merry and Pippin. The latter had been located and persuaded to join the gathering whilst Elanor had been speaking to her beloved. Said Glorfindel was speaking to Georgia in his customarily playful manner, blue eyes twinkling as he teased her as a younger sister.

For a time, Elanor sat upon the blanket upon the grass—for, as Elrohir said, "Why should one ever turn down a picnic?"—and simply observed those around her. It was utter bliss to sit amongst them again, to know that the threat of doom was not breathing down her neck and that she would not have to lose these people she had come to love. She munched happily on the meal Elladan had requested, drinking in the sight of their faces and full of inexpressible bliss that they could remain there as long as it pleased them.

The lack of contradicting thoughts rushing round Elanor's brain was startling; she had become so accustomed to the caterwauling within her mind over the previous months. The silence was peculiar—and most welcome.

 _I'm getting married!_ her heart sang. _Georgia's here, and the world is right, and I'm getting married!_

She half-expected her resident cynic to respond, and was half-disappointed when she didn't.

 _We'll have to begin announcing things soon… goodness, I wonder what people wear to weddings in Middle-earth? Do brides wear white? Do_ Elvish _brides wear white? Hang on, how do Elves even get married?_

 _You can probably ask him tonight you know._

 _Thats true… we'll have to tell everyone else though! Announce it! Do we do engagement parties here?_

 _Georgia can be my maid of honour! I'll have to tell her tonight!_

 _After you speak with Glorfindel._

 _Yes, after that._

Smiling to herself, Elanor continued munching on the noon meal and surveyed the company with satisfaction. Even her generally-argumentative consciousness had abandoned it's civil war to rejoice at the triumph of good. And for the rest of that afternoon, the company laughed and were merry till the sun slipped beyond the trees and day turned to night.

* * *

Elanor settled back on the springy pallet with a relieved sigh. In the darkness she could hear Georgia shifting beside her. Her sister rolled so she was on her side, facing Elanor with what the latter sensed was a brightly expectant expression.

Elanor continued to gaze into the black ceiling above, her face warm and delighting in Georgia's tension. At length, her sister sighed in exasperation and sat up.

"Ellie, you went wandering with Glorfindel for _three hours_ , and I've been sitting here in suspense the whole time. You can't just lie there now and _not_ tell me what you talked of, and what happened? Have you kissed yet? Did you..?" She trailed off.

Elanor sat up abruptly. "Did we what?"

"Well, you know…" Georgia's form was growing more distinct as Elanor's eyes adjusted, and she saw her sister shrug in the gloom. "You were gone a long while, and it was dark…"

"Georgia! No, definitely not!" Elanor half-laughed, shoving her sister's shoulder. "I mean, we certainly kissed, but Glorfindel is even more traditional than I. We talked a great deal, and he explained some things, and… well, it was nice." She pulled her knees to her chest and smiled girlishly.

Georgia clapped her hands. "Oooh yay! What did you talk about?"

Elanor rolled her eyes, glad for the darkness to conceal the blush in her cheeks. "I'm not telling you everything…"

"But you've got to tell me _something_! I've been sitting here for _hours_!"

The elder of the two paused, her stomach full of exuberant butterflies. She bit her lip for a moment, eyes alight even in the dusk.

"He asked me to marry him, G."

Georgia squealed loud enough to wake half the camp. Elanor promptly threw herself at her, smothering her with a pillow until the pair of them were giggling helplessly. Five minutes later, both panting, the sisters lay side-by-side upon the pallet.

"You're _engaged_ , El!" hissed Georgia, pulling her legs up to her stomach in glee. "That's so exciting! You're going to get _married_!"

"Shut-up, idiot, or I'll sit on you again," Elanor replied, though she grinned broadly and her voice belied the threat. "Well it's different to home, you know. Now that the war's over—if we'd wanted to get married during whole battle thing, we would simply have performed the rites and… well… slept together."

" _That's_ how the Elves get married?" Georgia cried.

"That's the official part—'bodily union'," admitted the other. "But because we're not in war, it's considered rude and ungracious to the families involved if we don't do it properly."

"So how do you do the whole thing properly?"

"We have an engagement party; a ceremony," Elanor said, slowly, thinking back to Glorfindel's speech. Most of the information had been put aside as she'd lost herself in the sweetness of his embrace. "We exchange silver rings at a feast where both our families attend, and set a date for the wedding; but the wedding has to be at least a year from then. Then we all meet again on the fore-ordained date, have another feast, and exchange gold rings. There's also a gift-giving from the parents of the bride and groom—not that we'll be able to do _that_ —and after that night, we are considered married."

"That sounds far too complicated to contemplate tonight," yawned Georgia. "I can't believe you're getting married to an Elf though!"

"Yeah…"

Her sister seemed to gain a new lease on life despite the late hour and sat up again. "El, you know that Elves and Humans only get married—"

"Very rarely, yes, I know," sighed Elanor. She closed her eyes for a moment. That part of their conversation had been less pleasant than other aspects.

"What's going to happen when you die and he continues living forever?"

 _Doesn't beat around the bush, does she…?_

"I—I don't know, honestly. I'm not half-Elven, so I can't choose my fate and go to Valinor with him, and he can't choose to die because he's full-Elven. I can't follow Tuor's footsteps, because I'm not an important person; and based on the Valar's reaction to the Noldor… well, I doubt they're going to be likely to give Glorfindel more leniency, even after he's helped achieve victory over Sauron."

Georgia was silent for a moment. "I sometimes forget how much you know now, El," she said quietly. She turned to look down at her sister. "You're different. You've grown. I dunno how exactly to put it, but you're not the Ellie that I knew—well, even four weeks ago. While you've been here… so much has happened. And it's not just that you know about Middle-earth now."

"Changed?" Elanor inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I—its hard to describe," the younger stammered. "It's good, though. You're—bigger. Not size-wise," she added quickly, when her sister sat up abruptly to protest. "No, not at all; in fact, you've gotten leaner and more toned. It's more about your… carriage, your presence. You walk taller, and you command respect here, I guess. You did at home too, but you seem to have a much wider circle and a whole lot of people who absolutely worship the ground you walk on. Glorfindel does, obviously, but Legolas greeted you like you were his sister! And Elladan and Elrohir evidently consider you family. The El _I_ knew would've stuck safely to what she knew, remained in Rivendell as a scholar and remained politely aloof from people. It's like you've gotten—more open. You're close to all of these people, and they love you."

Elanor sat in contemplation for a time, allowing Georgia's words to wash over her.

 _My carriage?_

 _Well, it's rather true… the Elanor who left those campgrounds was staid and boring, didn't like the unfamiliar, and couldn't comprehend how Georgia managed to charm the entire camp and socialise broadly. You have changed… would you ever have contemplated a journey to all corners of Middle-earth when you were living in Brisbane?_

 _Well… no. Never._

 _See? You've fallen in love with Glorfindel quickly and spontaneously; it's not the steady relationship you had with Tim. You guys were friends for years. This is like… the storybook romance._

 _I'm not totally different though… right? I haven't lost myself in this trek have I?_

 _Do_ you _think so?_

 _I mean, not really. Probably not. I'm still Elanor. I still hate the idea of not bathing, I've just managed to get over it if I can't do anything about it. I still want the familiar, the comfortable; why else would I wander across Arda?_

"Well, thanks G," she said eventually. "That's very kind of you. I guess I am different; I've learned quite a lot here, about myself and about dealing with things I never thought I could manage."

"And you've grown more patient," Georgia put in, with a laugh. "Goodness, you were always treating me like an unruly puppy more than a sister, scolding and telling me off. I was so surprised when I spoke to you in those first days, and you just… swallowed any of your reproofs, even though I could see in your eyes just how much you wanted to say them. Oh," she grinned, as Elanor's mouth fell open, "I knew fully that you wanted to tell me off properly. But you didn't, and while I probably still deserved it… it was nice, El."

"I'm sorry that I was always so strict, and always chiding and correcting," Elanor said softly. "I truly am. I was always the 'good' child in our family, Mum and Dad's pet. But once I was having a childish tantrum here, and was absolutely _awful_ to poor Bilbo, and Elrond gave me a thorough setting-down. He was loving through the disciplining, but I was so utterly humiliated. I think that made me realise how unpleasant it is to be told off, and made to feel like a child when I'm a twenty-two-year-old woman. I am sorry for being so stiff and prudish and boring in the past, G. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course!" Georgia cried, for though she might be hot-tempered she certainly could not be called bitter or resentful. "I truly deserved it, most of the time. Sometimes I didn't get _why_ you were so strict and keen to stick by the rules exactly, but I get it better now. And I have so much respect for how you've handled things so far."

Elanor chuckled. "Well I'm glad to have loosened up a little, then."

"You've gone back to talking normally again too," her sister remarked.

"Yeah. I don't know how it happens; I am usually so good at keeping it up, but I think when I'm with Glorfindel it kind of melts away, and with you too. He knows exactly where I've come from, and it seems odd to keep up the peculiar formality when it's just the two of us. And," Elanor grinned cheekily, "how is one supposed to have a giggly, girlish, sisterly conversation like this in the dead of night when one is using 'thee', 'thou' and 'thy'?"

Georgia laughed heartily then, and Elanor tossed another pillow over to silence her loud mirth. When she eventually stopped, and the two were lying side-by-side once more staring at the ceiling, she spoke:

"Hang on, before—did you say you were mean to _Bilbo Baggins_?"

"Yes," sighed Elanor, ruefully. "Possibly the most awful thing I've ever done."

"Is he as sweet and flustered and Martin Freeman-ish as in the movies?"

"Definitely. But Glóin and Gimli are true to the books; nothing like the 'hot' dwarves in _The Hobbit_ movies."

"Phew," her sister laughed. "I was starting to get anxious about that. There is still so much I want to know, Ellie! I want to go to Erebor, and Lothlórien, and Rivendell, and the Shire, and the Grey Havens… I want to go everywhere!"

"Me too," Elanor admitted. "But, G—I've decided to stay. I've got to; I love Glorfindel. Going back to Tim and everyone—if I got the chance, that is—would be far too painful. I couldn't go back on it right now. But if you want to go home… if say, Galadriel or Gandalf could figure out how to get you back… you can go, you know."

Georgia exhaled heavily. "Yeah, I haven't got a clue what I'm supposed to do, El. I mean, it's a bit of a nasty alternative; either I go back and lose you forever, or I stay here and lose Mum and Dad and my whole life forever, but I get to keep you and Middle-earth… it's a hard decision. The last few days, I've gotten a better idea of what you went through. And I honestly couldn't decide. I'd love to stay here for a while, and be—like a tourist." She paused and laughed. "But I guess if I do that, I'll get super attached and find it hard to go home…"

"It's both the best and worst things," Elanor proffered.

"Yeah."

"But," her elder sister supplied, with a hint of optimism. "We don't know whether it's even possible; it's sad knowing you won't be going back, but if there isn't anything you can do about it, it becomes easier to accept."

"That's true." Georgia rolled onto her side and looked at Elanor. "You've gotten super wise, big sister."

"Hardly," laughed Elanor, rolling over so they looked into one another's faces. "But thanks, G. Anyway, we should sleep; it's must be after midnight at least."

"Probably—but you're getting married!"

"Hush! Now, pass me back my pillows—I've thrown them all onto your side of the bed to keep you from shouting about my engagement to the entire encampment!"

* * *

The following morning, Elanor woke late. The sun had already made her appearance, gliding forth like a woman bedecked in golden jewellery. The other side of the bed was empty and cold, and many people were talking about the campgrounds. The air was surprisingly stuffy within the tent, evidence of the early onset of summer.

 _It's been so long since it's been warm_ , she mused sleepily, blinking at the ceiling of the tent. _And it'll still probably be way, way colder than it is in Australia… I wish it was properly warm here…_

After a few minutes she sat up, feeling pleasantly warm both from the temperature and the cosy memories of the previous day.

 _I'm engaged_ …

It was as if a hot spring had formed in the core of her being, filling her with an inescapable toastiness which made her want to skip about like an eleven-year-old girl.

Pushing aside the bedding, Elanor rolled forward to her knees and stood up. She wore one of the long silken nightgowns which she had acquired in Gondor. A gust of sweet air blew through the tent door, tousling her waist-length hair. The curls hung loose; Glorfindel had requested to see it unbound, and she had not re-braided it before drifting asleep.

The small tent she and Georgia had been allocated was situated several spots away from Elladan and Elrohir's pavilion. Like in the Rohirric camp at Dunharrow, the floor was strewn with carpets and there was a washstand in one corner. Rather than a narrow camp-bed, the sisters had been given a larger pallet stuffed with some kind of fresh grass or heather. The linen was soft and comfortable, and the whole tent was infused with the fragrances of spring.

Elanor turned to the twin chests which sat upon the ground. They contained the clothes she and Georgia had begun to accumulate thanks to Boromir's generosity.

 _It seems like all I've done is steal clothes from the moment I've been here! I'll have to thank him, or get Glorfindel to repay him somehow… these dresses must have cost a fortune…_

She had ordered Brúnel to pack both of them an appropriate selection of gowns, owing to Georgia's reminder that Aragorn did not arrive back in Minas Tirith until the 1st of May. It was presently the 4th of April, and a month's worth of clothing for two "southern noblewomen" amounted to no small pile of goods. Added to this was a delightful discovery Elanor had made; when a contingent had arrived from Edoras bearing goods for Éowyn, they had somehow managed to sweep several Elvish tunics into the mix. Éowyn had happily presented them to her friend, and Elanor was profoundly glad to receive them. The Gondorian gowns were stiffer than her Elvish ones in Rivendell—albeit less cumbersome about the sleeves—and whilst she preferred the former, the tunics were unmatched. She was unsure how they might be received amongst the more traditional in Minas Tirith, but decided that she could not pass up the opportunity to be comfortable and unencumbered.

Lacing the tent flap closed, Elanor removed her nightgown and folded it neatly. Sighing, she reached for Georgia's matching garment as well—it had been hastily discarded upon her departure. When this was done, she wrapped her chest in soft linen and donned her Elvish garments. Brúnel had washed them thoroughly, and despite heavy wear they were almost as good as new. She chose a pair of tan leggings and a soft green tunic, which fitted her trim form snugly and fastened about her waist with a supple leather belt. The tunic fell to just above her knees with impossibly fine embroidery tracing the mandarin collar and down her arms and bodice.

 _Hopefully people won't freak out about it, and think I'm a whore or something…_

By her old-world standards, it was a modest outfit, especially when coupled with supple leather boots which reached halfway up her calves. Judging by Boromir's reaction to Elanor's riding astride back in Rivendell, the likelihood of the Gondorians accepting the utilitarian attire was slim. Still, she would primarily be in the company of Elves, and knew very well that the tunic accentuated both her slender form and the sea-green colour of her eyes.

 _Glorfindel will like it, at least!_

She smiled to herself.

It felt rather as if she were missing something; the Gondorian gowns were proud and regal, and without a heavy cloak about her shoulders it was like she lacked an arm. Searching the tent with her eyes, her gaze finally fell upon her sheathed sword. It rested against the clothes chest, the slender blade covered in it's elegant leather-and-silver sheath.

Her stomach clenched. The last time she had worn that weapon on her hip, she had been riding into battle with Éowyn and Merry. One of Minas Tirith's weapon-masters had seen it cleaned, honed and returned to her, but she had refrained from wearing it. Brúnel had slipped it into her trunk.

That sword had dealt death. It had pierced flesh and bone and dealt mortal wounds to faceless Southlings. The pride she had once taken it was now tainted with crimson.

 _…perhaps Legolas will agree to spar with me. That's not violent or dangerous or… murderous_ , she thought, slowly. Shrugging, she tied the sheath to her belt. At least it would render her battle-ready tunic less out-of-place. The sword may have shrieked ruin and disaster, but it was a gift from her foster-father. She would never again ride into battle, nor kill—that much she'd decided the day Glorfindel had reprimanded her. But there was no harm in honing her abilities in peacetime, was there?

 _Of course not!_

With that in mind, a braid seemed the most logical for the day, so Elanor grasped the lengthening mass of curls behind the nape of her neck and plaited it deftly.

 _What now?_

 _Now?_ smiled Elanor, shifting the sword uneasily on her hip. _Now, I go and find my fiancée Glorfindel, and do absolutely nothing for the rest of the day._

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **vána - _beautiful one_**

* * *

 **Guess who's back! haha**

 **So I said I was going on hiatus, but I honestly couldn't stay away any longer... I managed to get my head screwed back on, and then decided that I wanted to toss out the next few scenes.**

 **This one is a little segmented:**

 **1\. Glorfy-Elanor: I know I ought to have put the proposal at the end of the chapter, but I honestly couldn't. Glorfindel absolutely refused to be put off until the end of this chapter. I apologise, but I'm not _really_ sorry.**

 **2\. Blissful reuniting with the others: there weren't precise words to describe the first time the whole group sits down and eats together. I couldn't go into detail, it just felt too emotional, almost like I was intruding on Elanor and her gathering!**

 **3\. Elanor and Georgia's midnight girly discussion: just the token conversation where the two of them chat about boys (*teehee*), and about Elanor's sudden engagement with Glorfindel, yah yah. I wanted the two of them to get to a greater level of camaraderie, understanding one another and being less at odds. Prudish Ellie has gotten way more chilled out and is now less worried about scolding Georgia, and can embrace the sisterly understanding thing. Yay :D**

 **4\. Just Elanor getting ready. I have nothing else to say.**

 **The chapter really isn't saying anything important, it's not furthering the plot, I just wanted to have a few fluffy chapters where there isn't angst, there isn't sudden discoveries, and there's just a whole lot of Glorfanor shipping. ^_^ So I hope I've satisfied you in that regard. I promise that the next chapter will skip through things a little more quickly. There will be announcements, pleasant discoveries, and the return to Minas Tirith!**

 **Have a great night guys; I'll be back writing again in the next day or two.**

 **Best, Finwe.**


	38. A cookie-cutter romance scene

**Chapter 38 - A cookie-cutter romance scene**

 **I'm back guys! Notes below.**

* * *

"Aren't you brave enough, Elanor?"

Elanor raised an eyebrow that was a great deal bushier than six months before. She sat upon a chair beneath the canopy of a blossoming tree, Glorfindel at her side and wearing an amused smirk. Elladan and Elrohir had disappeared half an hour previously with Legolas in tow, meaning to spar in a glade near the camp and to allow the lovers some privacy. Her sister had neglected to take the hint and come wandering through with the express idea of animated discussion.

"It's got nothing to do with bravery, Georgia," replied Elanor, a little tartly.

"Well it's not like you're not dressed for it," her sister put in, with blinding logic, gesturing at the workmanlike yet fine tunic and leggings which Elanor wore.

The latter sighed wearily, and Glorfindel squeezed her hand with warm fingers. The previous three days had been without respite. The announcement of the engagement between the Elf and the golden-haired human woman had been cause for much celebration within the camp; Elladan and Elrohir had been utterly amazed at first, though Legolas had been unsurprised.

 _Should've suspected that, though… he's a quick one._

Georgia had strutted about as proud as a peacock. Her pride at being sibling of the betrothed was unmatched, and whilst the two sisters had more deeply reconciled themselves to each other, Georgia was still as incorrigible as ever. She chattered, frolicked, interrupted, and was quite as cheerfully embarrassing as she'd always been.

After forty-eight hours of barely exchanging more than a few words at a time with Glorfindel, Elanor was growing short-tempered. It appeared that the Lords of the West would remain content to camp at the Field of Cormallen for some time yet. Gimli and Sam had not yet woken from the enchanted sleep Gandalf had bestowed upon them, and even when that event occurred, it would be weeks before they arrived back at Minas Tirith—and the engagement feast between human and Elf could be celebrated.

 _You need Elrond for that anyway, or else it will be an utter betrayal of his trust. So quit your worrying and fretting!_

"I shall come and observe, if you like," proffered Glorfindel, smiling gently as if he could read every thought passing through Elanor's eyes.

Realising this was the best offer she was going to receive, she nodded and turned back to Georgia.

"Alright, G. I'll come."

Georgia grinned in satisfaction. "Excellent. Come on, Glorfy, come support your champion."

Elanor bit back a snarky remark as her sister grasped Glorfindel's arm and escorted him out of the clearing.

 _And there you were thinking that victory over Sauron would equal instant happiness!_

 _Shut it_.

With every step, Elanor beat the ground with her heels. Her face was fixed in a half-scowl at Georgia's back. The trio drew several stares, mostly because Glorfindel was such a distinctive figure; there were few Elves in camp, and the Noldorin Lord was considered fair even amongst the others of his race. Several of Prince Imrahil's advisors passed them with polite smiles, and Elanor attempted to remedy her frown so as not to offend some of Aragorn's chief allies. Passing through to the far side of the commander's glade, Elanor observed Éomer standing with one of his Marshals. The Rohirric king wore the stern expression she had come to associate with him. Elanor braved a smile, her bad temper somewhat lightened by the grouchy Horse-lord's perpetual frown. His grouchiness was almost comical. His eyes lingered on her only long enough to nod slightly, then passed to the pair in front. Glorfindel seemed to glide across the grass, whilst Georgia half-skipped beside him.

 _Just what I don't want Éomer to see about my younger sister!_

Fortunately, they passed the King of Rohan swiftly, slipping amongst the trees and angling in the direction from which came sounds of laughter and metal clashing. Elanor sighed as they neared the conflict, her amusement at Éomer's uppityness waning.

Circling a bush, they emerged into a small sheltered clearing. The forest floor was fragrant earth coated in pine needles and mercifully free of roots. In it's centre stood Legolas and Elladan; the former held his two knives, whilst the latter carried an elegant broadsword of Elvish make. They whirled faster than the eye could observe, almost seeming to dance in deadly unison. Elanor halted unconsciously. She had avoided the sparring grounds and soldier's camp since the battle, for even though the good-natured tussles drew no blood, it still stirred a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her sister's request that they spar made her want to spit bile, and struggled to reconcile itself with her desire to lash out physically.

For a few minutes, she simply watched Legolas and Elladan and attempted to quell her annoyance. Her foster-brother and friend struggled to best one another and she lost herself in the clashing of blades, glad to drown out Georgia's chatter to her fiancé.

 _Fiancé… he's my fiancé…_

Elanor smiled.

 _It's not like you're actually getting to be engaged, though. He's spent more time with Georgia and Aragorn than you lately!_

Her smile faded.

It seemed that neither Legolas nor Elladan could gain the upper hand. Walnut hair mingled with raven as they began to slow, and eventually flew apart as if stung. Both breathed slightly harder than normal.

"An even contest," smiled Elrohir, from the far side of Glorfindel and Georgia.

"I shall best you one day," huffed Elladan to Legolas, his sword dangling at his side.

"Never, brother-of-my-heart," the Silvan Elf laughed, sheathing his knives. "Lord Elrond may be my ada's superior, but he saw that I should never fall second to one of the Noldor."

Both exchanged merry glances and burst into laughter as they moved side-by-side towards the gathered onlookers.

"Ah," Elladan smiled at Elanor as he noticed her, "I see that my sister and her betrothed have graced us with their presence. See, hanar! It is Elanor!" He reached out to tug the braid which rested upon her shoulder, and she struggled to force a grin.

"I saw you this morning, Elladan," she retorted weakly.

"And ever since you have been closeted with your betrothed!" added Legolas. "It is insupportable, Elanor. We cannot do without her!"

She held up her hands to stay the protests and found tears smarting at the back of her eyes.

 _"I've hardly seen him!"_ she wanted to screech. _"I've barely had a chance to talk to him, I've been so busy dealing with Georgia and politely sitting whilst Glorfindel's in meetings! Or walking alone, or with Georgia, which is… almost worse. So just—"_

Instead, she swallowed hard and rolled her eyes to disguise the tears. For once, Georgia's inability to be silent worked in her favour. The younger Ravenscroft laughed and broke in.

"I had to drag her out of the glade! But she's promised to spar with me, if we can find some weapons," she beamed, glancing about. "Might I borrow your knives, Legolas?"

If the request offended the Elf, he gave no sign. Still, Elanor could have beaten her face with the palm of her hand as he flicked the knives out of their sheaths and passed them hilt-first to her sister. Weapons were not lightly surrendered in Middle-earth, even during times of peace.

"Will you use your sword, El?" Georgia asked, nodding at the slender blade at Elanor's hip.

She gave a curt nod and strode forward to stand in the centre of the glade. She made a great show of fiddling with her sword belt and unfastening the sheath as she blinked away the moisture in her eyes. Pulling her blade free, she tossed the sheath at Legolas, who caught it with one deft hand and a cheery grin.

"Do not shame me, Elanor," he called cheerfully, "or else I shall no longer claim the pleasure of being your teacher!"

 _Thanks Legolas, that really helps_.

She did not look at the well-meaning Elf, instead fixing her eyes on Georgia. Her sister wore an arch expression, and allowed Legolas' knives to roll about her fingers. She approached upon her toes, her natural athleticism made evident in the easy movements.

It appeared that her inner cynic had decided that this was the most opportune time to make a reappearance.

 _It'd probably be a safer wager to bet on Georgia…_

 _You're not helping either!_

Elanor fixed her eyes upon her sister and stood stock-still. She had little patience for the playful dance before the battle commenced, and instead chose to observe her sister with an appraising eye.

She had fought Georgia often enough before to know her sister's strengths and weaknesses, and that she was certainly no stranger to a pair of knives.

 _Weren't we doing this only… six months ago?_

 _Yeah, and you lost._

Elanor narrowed her eyes and willed herself to loosen the grip upon her sword's hilt. A tense hold would merely condemn her to loss and embarrassment in front of her friends and, worst of all, her betrothed.

Georgia darted forward several times, feigning an offensive with a playful smirk upon her face. Elanor's cold determination seemed to amuse her.

"You always did take everything seriously Ellie," she called in a sing-song voice, twirling the knives neatly and swaying from side to side in a half-crouch. Seeing this produced no effect, Georgia hurled several more taunts in her direction, finally passing to, "C'mon El, you know you're going to lose; may as well get it over with!"

Elanor could almost see her inner self roll her eyes in impatience.

 _You've done it now G._

Feeling rather disgusted with the whole activity, Elanor flicked her sword upwards with relative ease. Lunging forward, she aimed an overhead cut at Georgia with speed previously denied her in their childhood sparring. The younger flung Legolas' knives up just in time, catching the Elvish sword mere centimetres from her head as she locked them in a v-shape. For a moment the pair paused, Georgia's eyes wide as she stared up at her sister's face in something akin to shock.

Elanor's full weight was behind the cut, and Georgia's arms began to shake beneath the force of the blow. Elanor stared back, full of icy frustration and resentment. The downward pressure on Legolas' knives meant Georgia could not move, lest her sister slice her from shoulder to groin.

Elanor felt as if her nerves were frayed to the point of snapping; the relief she had expected at their victory had been a harsh disappointment. Every part of her longed for silence and solitude, and for the return of the blissful routine afforded her in Rivendell. Instead, she was caught in a wearying quandary which ought to be delightful but forced her into agonised silence.

 _I want to sit and play chess with Bilbo_ , her eyes shouted into Georgia's. _I want to go riding with Legolas! I want to lie on Elrond's sofa and read while he sits at his desk, and hear nothing but the scratch of his pen on parchment! I want to wander with Glorfindel beneath the trees, and kiss him, and have a home and a family! I want to sleep in a house! I want a proper hot bath in my tub in Rivendell, and a new tunic. I want to see Indilwen come in with early morning tea! I just want peace._

 _And if I never have to fight anyone ever again, it will be too soon._

She held her deadly advantage for a moment longer, before snatching the sword away so quickly that Georgia's arms buckled.

"This is over, G," she whispered.

Whirling about, Elanor dropped her sword upon the needle-covered ground and departed the clearing as swiftly as she could.

* * *

Elanor stumbled into the trees as the tears began in earnest. It took a moment before she heard voices from the clearing behind her, but she blundered forward regardless of pursuit.

Her breaths were raspy and laboured, though it had little to do with the physical effort of her flight. She could feel her body shaking with frustration and her face was damp and sticky. She believed she had fled in the opposite direction of the commander's clearing, and after a few minutes lost the will to run. She stumbled to a halt, one hand reaching out to lean against a great pine tree as she gasped for air.

 _Is it too much to ask that we all go home and spend forever eating and sleeping and riding?_

 _Probably. It's Middle-earth, not Disneyland._

Elanor blinked until she could see clearly. She stood in an a maze of trees, and there was no sign of the campsite in any direction. Shuddering slightly, she moved to a broad tree root and flopped down. One of the Elves would find her easily enough, if she paused to wait. Their tracking skills still struck her as uncanny.

Pulling her knees up, Elanor rested her chin upon them. The air was warm and cloying beneath the thick canopy of leaves, and the earth moist. She sat for a time, slowly allowing her breathing to return to normal. After some minutes, Glorfindel's figure sprang into her vision; his soft footfalls had not reached her ears.

Elanor stared at his boot-clad feet, arms wrapped protectively around her legs.

"Come here, Elanor," Glorfindel said softly, crouching so she was forced to meet his eyes. His fair brow was furrowed slightly in the depth of his concern.

Feeling like a sullen child, Elanor rocked forward onto her feet. Glorfindel stood to his full height and caught her as if she possessed all the fragility of a glass vase. A moment later her damp face was pressed against the soft fabric of his tunic.

Elanor allowed him to hold her, breathing deeply of his mint-and-pine scent. She felt strangely numb, suddenly unable to find the tears which had threatened to assail her for many days past. She merely stood there, vaguely enjoying Glorfindel's closeness and feeling utterly spent.

"What plagues you, jewel of my heart?"

Elanor half-shrugged, shoulders tucked beneath his arms.

"If I could discern aught of what troubled me, it would be of no import."

Glorfindel pushed her out so he could stare into her blue eyes and raised an eyebrow in contemplation.

"You know, Elanor Ravenscroft," he mused softly, "you impress me with your wit and swiftness of speech. From the first moment I beheld you, you bewitched me. Weary, bedraggled and starved, I found you fair indeed and full of sorrow. Your joy and beauty blossomed and grew as weeks passed, and I could find naught to lessen my regard for you." He paused to smile and brush a stray hair from her cheek. Elanor swallowed hard. "Yet I see that this war has laid heavy upon your heart. Your foresight is no easy burden to withstand, and you have borne it gracefully. Victory has come! And still do you appear forlorn and sad. Speak, Elanor, and speak from the heart I have come to love so well; your adeptness in mimicking the manner of the Elves is admirable, and yet—" He laughed dryly. "I cannot help but prefer the direct speech of your home world. That is the manner in which I first heard you, and I would not see you give it up—not for me, or any other beneath the heavens."

Suddenly, the tears returned. Confronted by the depths of Glorfindel's blue eyes, Elanor cried and fell back against him, weeping with unbridled fervour. The Elf cradled her gently, not attempting to placate her with false comforts. When she had spent her sobs, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet. After a few steps, she found herself being placed carefully upon a convenient log. He released her. When Elanor's tear-filled eyes opened, she saw that he knelt upon the moss before her, his hands resting on the log either side of her. She placed her fingers over his and held them tight, drawing them up to rest on her knees.

Elanor smiled weakly.

"I don't really know what's wrong," she said at last. "I suppose—it's weird, having Georgia here. Strange, I mean. Suddenly, I've got a decision I hoped I'd never have to face, and so does she. I'm happy in Middle-earth, with you. I am, totally. But what if Georgia goes back and I remain? It's makes the decision harder, worse somehow."

The Elf nodded. His face was caught in concentration, brows lowered slightly as if he were thinking hard. Elanor's stomach lurched.

"I wouldn't leave you, not for a second," she cried, half-horrified at the thought he would contemplate her departure. "I couldn't."

Glorfindel's lips curled in a soft smile, and the pressure on Elanor's fingers increased slightly. His eyes flickered with something like nostalgia or dull sorrow, brushed aside as he spoke again. "I would not press you to stay, Elanor. But," he continued, holding up a hand to quell any argument, "I rejoice that you desire to remain."

She smiled in return, then sighed. "As am I. But I'm frustrated too, Glorfindel. Everything's happening so slowly, and all I want to do is get back to Minas Tirith, and see Elrond, and announce our engagement and—get married. But we're waiting here for Gimli and Samwise to waken, and then we'll wait _weeks_ to get back to the city. I'm sick of camping, I'm tired of so many people around, and—just you wait, this is the worst part—sometimes I cannot _stand_ Georgia." Elanor bit her lip to stop herself crying again. "All I want is to go off and live my own, quiet, pleasant life, and leave all the problems of Middle-earth to someone else. Sounds selfish, doesn't it? It's almost like… I'm sick of caring about these big causes. I'm sick of the nightmares I still get sometimes, since the battle. Goodness, when Georgia made me spar just now—"

Elanor's face wrinkled in distress. The memories of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields had been easier to dispel since rejoining her companions from Rivendell, but on a restless night she still struggled against the jarring images of the dead and maimed.

"That sword from Elrond could be called _naeth,_ " she mumbled bitterly, stung that such a beautiful gift should be tainted by the horrors of war. She might spar again, after time had healed her spirit; but she would never again wield that slender Elvish weapon.

Glorfindel released one of her hands to cup her chin. "You need never fight again, Elanor, save for enjoyment amongst friends," he said seriously.

She shrugged listlessly. "I don't really even want to try that. Not yet, anyway."

"Then you shall not."

Elanor forced a smile, touched by his concern but lost amongst her bewildered thoughts. Absently, she berated herself for selfishness. She felt so overwrought after the months of tension and of missing Glorfindel that the thought of remaining unsettled at the military camp was unconscionable, in her mind. War was base and repulsive, and she longed to flee from it's influences as far as possible.

"How'd you get through it all, Glorfindel?" she asked, softly. "How did you not fall apart from fear and grief, in battle after battle? How did you watch Gondolin burn, and come back to Middle-earth without those you loved?"

The moment Elanor had uttered the words, she wished she could have swallowed them. Later, she kicked herself for the foolishness which led to so much frustration and grief. Glorfindel's eyes were like windows, and she saw his mind working swiftly through surprise, distant pain and regret.

"Elanor—"

That lady grimaced and waved hastily. "No, I'm sorry, that was a horrid question. I shouldn't have asked it."

"Elanor, no," insisted Glorfindel, rising lithely and planting himself on the log beside her. "You have every right to ask it; we have not spoken of such things since that night in Elrond's study. And I would not wish to withhold any secrets from you."

 _Secrets?_

"Perhaps I know a little of the loss of your family," the Elf admitted, slipping an arm about her shoulders. "Your grief moved me, for I had known such grief and pitied you all the more for it. Especially the loss of your beloved, Tim, for I know you admired him greatly." Elanor glanced over at his countenance. He appeared troubled, and almost as hesitant as the moments he had longed to confess his love for her.

"It is a hard thing, Elanor, and harder still for you. I was a knight of Turgon, a warrior from birth and well-suited to the task. Little love did I possess for violence and slaughter, but neither did I endure the horror which I read upon your face. Gondolin—it was ruinous, Elanor. Little else could drive me to throw myself from a height, locked in an embrace with one of Morgoth's spawn," he replied, wryness masking the pain beneath. "But Idril—" He broke off, as if lost for words.

 _Turgon's family obviously meant a lot to him…_

Glorfindel stared down at the moss upon the ground. The arm around Elanor was stiff and unfeeling, as if he were so lost amongst memories he wasn't aware of her presence. It was a peculiar sensation, for the golden-haired lord was generally possessed with an irrepressible light-heartedness and interest in his surrounds.

"I have compared the two of you often enough, have I not Elanor?" he said, after a moment's pause. His tone was rather distant, and Elanor recoiled in surprise.

"Yes, and a great compliment it was too," she replied, confused. "What's wrong?"

Glorfindel removed his arm and rubbed his face with his hands. He sighed and sat up erect, but did not look at her.

"I loved her. Idril was the light of Turgon's court, beautiful beyond compare, fleet of foot and graced with wisdom beyond her years. I revered her—and loved her. And I was not the only one. Yet her affections did not turn upon me, but rather to Tuor, when he entered Gondolin. I could not press my suit, for she loved me not. Thus the only lady I have ever desired, until you, was lost to me at the hand of a mortal man, and in a final desperate demonstration of my affection I sacrificed my life to save those of Lady Idril, Lord Tuor, and their son—Eärendil."

The silence that fell between them was thick and clammy. Elanor's fingernails bit into her palms as she struggled to process her fiancee's confession. Glorfindel had always spoken of Idril as if she were a beloved sister, but as Elanor struggled to recall previous mention of the Elf-woman, she realised such statements might easily be misconstrued.

 _And why shouldn't he have loved her? By all accounts she was beautiful, clever, graceful and kind. Glorfindel was sworn to protect the family; he was highly-placed, and just as intelligent and powerful… it makes sense… too much sense._

"Why didn't you tell me before?" she asked quietly.

Glorfindel gave a sharp shrug. "It is a painful subject, Elanor," he snapped.

Stung by the abruptness of his remark, Elanor shifted so she no longer sat pressed up against his side. The stare she turned on him was blazing with accusation. "And so you didn't tell me that you were in love with this perfect Elf-maiden from Gondolin? You talked about her so often, Glorfindel! You were always saying I reminded you of her. What you really should have said was that I was the—the _consolation prize_ ; the _mortal_ woman you decided you'd have because you couldn't get Idril! I look like her, so that's good enough, is it? You'd take me because Idril was lost to you? You died saving her, came back to serve her grandson, and— _oh look_ , isn't that convenient? A lost, alone, human woman who happens to look like your old love, who's foolish enough to take you!"

As Elanor spat out the final words, Glorfindel sprang to his feet. His countenance was utterly changed, no longer benevolent and thoughtful but tattooed with fury and hurt.

"I make no apologies for such a concealment," he replied. His voice was low and hard. "I had no tryst with Idril, for my love was unrequited. I did not serve only her, but also my King. Such an affection was foolish in it's beginnings, for I knew then it should not end favourably. And to walk upon Middle-earth once again, at the Valar's bidding and to serve their purposes—to find love is almost beyond the realms of possibility! For a time I struggled against this, for both our sakes. I do not wish either of us to regret love, Elanor, yet I marvel at your lack of reason in this matter. You would question my honour, by suggesting I love you merely because you remind me of another?" His voice broke in pain and he moved back half a step. Elanor sat upon the log, gaping at him in horror.

"Glorfindel—"

The Elf shook his head, features written with sorrow. Elanor felt suddenly nauseous at the bitter tirade she had poured forth just moments before.

 _He just confessed something important to him, and you questioned his motives! Elanor Ravenscroft, when has Glorfindel ever given a moment's hint that he's fickle or false or unfaithful! He's the most virtuous, chaste, genuine person imaginable, and you had the audacity to doubt whether he actually loves you? Hasn't he proven that time and time again? Heck, even if he never said it, the fact he's willing to wed a mortal just about cancels the possibility of him lying! You told him about Tim, and you were far more involved than Glorfindel probably ever was with Idril. Is it so wrong that he admires you for the same reasons he admired her?_

"Glorfindel, I'm so sorry," she whispered, more to the ground than the one addressed; the hurt in the sharp blue eyes was like a knife. "I should never have said such things. I—I want to make excuses, but there aren't really any that can account for me being so thoughtless… and unkind." She gave a sad laugh. "I suppose when you've lived about twenty times longer than me, you've got so many more memories, and friendships… I haven't asked about you half so much as I should have."

Still the Elf did not speak, and Elanor braved a glance upward. Glorfindel's fair face was still pained. It felt rather like kicking a puppy.

 _He's not just hurt… he's wondering how on earth you could question an honour that's written into the fabric of his being, Elanor. It's like his DNA._

 _Great. Thanks. That makes things so much easier to repair._

"Glorfindel?"

Elanor rose hesitantly and sniffed. Her face was caked with tears and her nose thoroughly blocked. Utterly disgusted with herself, she crept forward until she stood looking up into his eyes. His expression was implacable, like a wall of seamless stone.

"Please," she said, desperate. One hand reached gently out and touched his chest. Seeing him flinch backwards was perhaps most painful of all. Tears sprang to her eyes and she did not observe him leaving the clearing.

* * *

It was several hours before Elanor left the clearing—alone. She had indulged in another good cry until her eyes were puffy beyond efforts of concealment and she had a dull headache.

She had realised all too quickly that she had offended her fiancee deeply.

 _Imagine if he questioned your love for him! You'd be horrified._

That was true enough. He had responded with remarkable grace to her bitter and unfounded accusations, rather than flaring up in kind.

 _And for that I should be grateful… goodness, if he'd said as much to me we'd probably still be shouting yet! All he was trying to do was explain… and I did ask him… He was honest, and forthright, and I reacted…_

 _Abysmally?_

 _…I suppose you could put it like that, yes._

Her exasperation with the present state of affairs was no excuse for her ungraciousness, that much was certain. The Elf of many ages of men did not deserve a petulant, childish wife, and Elanor could have kicked herself for displaying such undesirable qualities. It was all she could do to prevent herself rushing after him. She had always been pressed by a desire to bring disagreements to an immediate resolution, whatever the cost. This time she was certain she'd allow Glorfindel some time to himself before she barged in and made the situation worse.

Twilight was beginning to fall as she eventually rose from the log. That piece of fallen timber had endured many tears and an emotional rollercoaster since Elanor had fled her sparring match with Georgia. With a sigh, she realised she would have to explain her hasty withdrawal as well as the palpable tension between herself and Glorfindel. Her emotions felt as if they'd just endured a few rounds against a heavyweight boxer, and the self-interested thoughts which had plagued her were far away.

Glancing around, Elanor rubbed one eye. She was reasonably confident she'd be able to find her way back to the campgrounds. If not, one of the Elves would certainly find her, but she had little desire to be rescued. Her chief concern was reaching the relative safety of her tent whilst encountering as few people as possible.

Just as she had decided to strike out in a particular direction, a figure emerged from the woods. Her fiancé's face was especially handsome in that moment, lit in the soft light of dusk and with his golden hair glowing.

Forgetting that quarrelling lovers were supposed to live at odds for several days at least, Elanor flung herself at him. To her immense relief, he welcomed her with open arms, her momentum carrying her up onto her tiptoes so that Glorfindel held her high against his chest.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, spent from crying. "Glorfindel, I've been awful. It's entirely my fault, and I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

Glorfindel moved back slightly and brushed her cheek. His eyes dwelt momentarily upon her puffy eyes and grimy face, and he smiled.

"There is naught to forgive, Elanor; I should have returned sooner, but I thought you might need some time to yourself. There has been precious little of late."

Elanor laughed, and her betrothed's eyes lit up at the sound.

"And here I was thinking I should stay out a bit longer to give _you_ time," she replied, leaning back into his chest and burying her face near his collarbone. "I'm so glad you came back, though. I thought you might be angry—for a long time."

"Learn this lesson well, Elanor Ravenscroft; my temper is short-lived."

"As is mine, silly! About ten minutes in and I had realised what an idiot I was, about everything—honestly, everyone's been through so much, and for me to sit here wishing I was back in Rivendell with you is plain selfish. Plus, I am so glad you told me about Idril—I was completely unreasonable about that too. I'm very sorry, and I wish I'd come to you sooner!"

Glorfindel's laugh was loud and long, so much so that Elanor leaned back to study his now-merry face. "What is it?"

He bent down and kissed her thoroughly before replying. When he spoke, his lips were near hers and he bumped her nose. "I've been standing not a dozen feet away the entire time, just through the trees, watching. I wanted to come back to _you_ the entire time, for I could see the repentance in your eyes the moment after you spoke."

Elanor reached out with both hands and drew his face down to hers until he kissed her softly again. His hands rested gently upon her waist and shoulder, and every movement was gentle and tender.

"I'm an immature idiot, Glorfindel," she said at length, as he finished by dropping a last peck upon her nose. "And now you're stuck with me."

"Happily," he sighed, blithely, pulling her closer.

Elanor's stomach felt as if it would burst with all the exuberant butterflies that had made it their home. For several minutes, the pair stood in each others' embrace, profoundly relieved.

"You know," she said finally, "Georgia would say that lovers from different universes are supposed to be angsty and not make up for ages; and we're supposed to walk into some dangerous situation and you'd sweep me off my feet, and then we'd not be able to resist forgiving one another."

Glorfindel grinned knowingly. "There's only one problem with that, loveliest flower; there shall be no more dangerous situations for you—you've quite had your share. Therefore, Georgia's reasoning is without grounds, and we must simply make do to resolve our conflicts as swiftly as possible."

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **naeth - grief, gnashing of teeth in grief (biting, woe).**

* * *

 **So! This Glorfanor fantrain is back on track and chuffing away.**

 **I'm sorry I've been inactive for so long; I had exam period, National Novel Writer's Month (which sucked my Elanor inspiration dry) and then moving back home from university to keep me busy. I'm also spending 8 days in Papua New Guinea just before Christmas, but for the next couple of weeks you've got me back full-time. :D**

 **Writing this was a bit tricky, as I had to go back and re-familiarise myself with Elanor's emotional state, her relationship with Glorfindel... all of that. Not to mention the actual events and the present state of things! I had written half of this before exam period hit, so I had to finish it up. That was, perhaps, harder than writing a whole chapter from scratch.**

 **Anyway, rest assured that this fic will be finished and not merely left in the fanfic graveyard. :) Thoughts on this chapter are very welcome, as I'd like to hear whether this sits well with previous chapters or is a bit of a jarring re-entry.**

 **Hope you've all been well and thanks to those who have followed/favourited in my absence.**

 **Finwe. :)**


	39. Praise them with great praise

**Chapter 39 - Praise them with great praise**

* * *

 **8th April, 3019 (Third Age)**

The vibrant green of the wood parted with all the flair of a theatre's curtain. The break in the trees was trimmed with clear light, for the sun glinted on the bright mail as if the knights who lined the avenue had been bedecked in mithril and diamonds. The midnight black of their tunics was emblazoned with the tree of Gondor, and the company, to a man, stood stately and tall. Hair of deep brown and black fell from beneath the helms of the guard, and grey eyes no longer held the iron hardness of earlier months spent in relentless combat. As a small company moved towards them they bowed and greeted them with honour. One blew a long trumpet, and the entire dazzling contingent moved between the aisle of trees, alongside a singing stream.

A few moments later, they passed from beneath the eaves of the forest and stepped onto a green field. The Anduin beyond was cloaked in a silver haze, forming a soft backdrop to the mighty host assembled upon the Field of Cormallen. The smaller company which had lingered at the edge of the wood were but a hint of the splendour of the army, drawn up in ranks and companies which glittered in the sun. Every soldier had been polished and spruced, and as the honour guard passed between their ranks swords were unsheathed, and spears were shaken, and horns and trumpets sang, and men cried with many voices and in many tongues:

 _"Long live the Ringbearers! Praise them with great praise!  
Cuio i Pheriain anann! Aglar'ni Pheriannath!  
Praise them with great praise, Samwise and Gimli!  
Daur a Berhael, Conin en Annuˆn! Eglerio!  
Praise them!  
Eglerio!  
A laita te, laita te! Andave laituvalmet!  
Praise them!  
Cormacolindor, a laita ta´rienna!  
Praise them! The Ring-bearers, praise them with great_

 _praise!"_

A soft smile crept upon Elanor's face as she observed the two figures who moved forward at the head of the honour guard with red faces and eyes shining in wonder; one broad and squat, and the other slender and childlike. Absently, she squeezed Glorfindel's hand, but was too enchanted to see the tall Elf smile down at her. The lovers stood amidst the other Elves present, flanked by Legolas and Elrond's sons. A small distance away were several Rangers and Aragorn's advisors, looking surprisingly neat and almost foreign without their dull and travel-stained attire. Merry and Pippin also stood with them, erect and bright-eyed in the front rank so they were afforded a good view despite their meagre height. They had been granted a place of honour at the head of the left-hand column, with a clear sight of three high-seats built of green turves.

Elanor continued to watch as Sam and Gimli moved to the centre of the clamorous host and looked in awe at the throne-like seats. Behind the seat upon the right floated, white on green, a great horse running free; upon the left was a banner, silver upon blue, a ship swan-prowed faring on the

sea; but behind the highest throne in the midst of all a great standard was spread in the breeze, and there a white tree flowered upon a sable field beneath a shining crown and seven glittering stars. On the throne sat a mail-clad man, a great sword was laid across his knees, but he wore no helm. As they drew near he rose. And then they knew him, changed as he was, so high and glad of face, kingly, lord of Men, dark-haired with eyes of grey. Elanor chewed her lip, eyes stinging with unforeseen emotion.

Sam ran to meet him, and Gimli followed close behind.

"Well if this isn't the crown of all!" he said. "Strider, or I'm still asleep!"

"Yes, Sam, Strider," said Aragorn. "It is a long way, is it not, from Bree, where you did not like the look of me? A long way for us all, but yours has been the darkest road."

And then to Sam's surprise and utter confusion, he bowed his knee before them; and taking them by the hand, Gimli upon his right and Sam upon his left, he led them to the throne, and setting them upon it, he turned to the men and captains who stood by and spoke, so that his voice rang over all the host, crying:

"Praise them with great praise!"

When the glad shout had swelled up and died away again, Elanor's heart leapt with joy and satisfaction. The highs and lows of days previous had been lost in the excitement of Sam and Gimli's waking, and her selfishness brushed aside in renewed pleasure at the success of their mission. At this time more than any other, Elanor was flooded by hazy memories of Tolkien's novel and the film adaption. Thus, as a minstrel of Gondor stood forth, and knelt, and begged leave to sing, she fidgeted with excitement. And behold! he said:

"Lo! lords and knights and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye of Elrond's house, and Dunedin of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and great hearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Samwise of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

This pronouncement was met with silence, save that Gimli gave a low chuckle and nudged Sam knowingly. The hobbit went pink to the tips of his pointed ears, and tears glistened upon his cheeks.

And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.

Elanor's heart was pressed with conflicting emotion as she stood, tears dampening her cheeks. It felt as if she had striven to separate herself from the fate of Middle-earth since the battle, yet as she looked upon the worn yet happy faces of Sam and Gimli, her spirit melted. It was a day to be joyous and glad, and to celebrate the resilience of the Ringbearers; to honour the sacrifice of the soldiers. They had done better than she had hoped since the news of Frodo's death, and having seen the weariness which lay upon them she found a new appreciation for their toils.

 _A joyous day._

And at the last, as the Sun fell from the noon and the shadows of the trees lengthened, the minstrel ended. "Praise them with great praise!" he said and knelt. And then Aragorn stood up, and all the host arose, and they passed to pavilions made ready, to eat and drink and make merry while the day lasted.

As the host began to disperse, Glorfindel drew Elanor closer to himself. He slipped one arm about her waist and twirled her in a full rotation as if they danced. Several soldiers stopped to watch, their eyes alight with interest at seeing what appeared to be two Elves in rapture.

"What on earth are you doing?" she laughed softly, as he placed her upon the ground, aware of the stares. She looked up into his face, her lips parted in a blithe smile. Glorfindel's eyes were luminescent with fathomless joy, and he seemed to radiate a clear gold light. With a start, Elanor realised that the day meant more to her fiancé than she could contemplate herself and could not begrudge him the public display of good spirits.

"I faer nîn meren," he replied, planting her feather-light upon the ground. "Come; now is not the time for speech, but for food and drink and dancing!"

Elladan, Elrohir and Legolas were milling about several paces away, and speaking in light and joyful tones. Georgia stood with them, silent for once as she listened in rapture to their quick speech in the Elven-tongue. Elanor caught a fair number of the words and could not help but laugh.

"Alright; I'm ravenous!"

Gimli and Sam had been escorted away by Gandalf, and Elanor could see no sign of them as diligently as she scanned the multitude of bodies.

"Do not dally by the wayside, nethig!" came a cheerful call from several steps ahead. Elladan shot a wink over one shoulder at her as he skipped across the meadow with all the lightness of a child. As they neared Aragorn's great pavilion, Glorfindel released her hand with a squeeze and moved to speak to Legolas. Seeing her betrothed engaged elsewhere, Elladan dropped back to walk beside his foster-sister. He slipped his hand about hers so their arms were linked and smiled in his easy, charming manner.

"How do you feel today, Elanor?"

"Very well," that lady sighed, "though hungry."

"I am gladdened to hear it!" He shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. "Perhaps it is harder for me to grasp that all is, in fact, over and complete. You, Elanor, were always convinced it would end as it has, were you not?"

 _Was I?_

"I hoped very much that it would be—but there were no sureties, for things have changed much since I arrived," she smiled.

Elladan gave her a gentle nudge with his arm. "I have never seen Ada's advisor so joyous as since your betrothal was announced."

Elanor turned to gaze up at her foster-brother seriously. Elladan's grey eyes were without guile as they trod the path across the meadow in the wake of the rest of the merrymakers.

"What _will_ Father say?" she said, dropping her eyes to study the delicate clusters of wildflowers that made their home in the grass.

"He'll marvel at the propensity of his mortal foster-children in finding mates amongst the Firstborn," Elladan chuckled. For several moments, the peculiar pair named brother and sister walked in silence. Then the taller Elf turned to the slight, golden-haired figure at his side.

"Sam and Gimli must be considered great among their races," he mused. "Yet they are not the only mortals who have aided in this cause." He looked at Elanor keenly then, and she flushed vibrant pink.

"Elladan, I did almost nothing," Elanor said, firmly. "It is not false modesty; anything I did do which was of assistance is more than cancelled out by the selfish motives which drove me to it! I prophesied the Fellowship to secure a chance to remain in Rivendell with Elrond and avoid being sent on the Quest. I journeyed south with the Grey Company because I missed my friends. I rode to war because I had no hope and wished to die. There is nothing honourable in that."

Elanor blinked rapidly and stared ahead, conscious of Elladan's shrewd gaze upon her.

"I did nothing more than ensure my own survival," she concluded, a trifle shakily.

Elladan was unable to restrain a low chuckle. "I am glad of that at least—and so shall Father be. Yet," he added, too soft for her mortal ears, "I doubt he will regard ye so low."

* * *

Glorfindel sipped the watered wine and glanced over the rim of his goblet. The air was raucous with the sound of cheery talk, and the high table not to be distinguished by any greater degree of dignity. There sat Aragorn, and Gandalf; King Éomer of Rohan, the Prince Imrahil and all the chief captains, Lord Boromir, and those Elves present. Sam and Gimli were seated beside the King, looking rather tired and awed by the whole proceeding. The rest chattered happily, free to exchange news with friends of old and discuss anything aside from war.

The Noldorin Elf's eyes flicked restlessly about the celebration, rarely lingering long upon any subject. Elrohir was in an animated conversation with one of captains of Dol Amroth at his right hand, whilst Legolas had secured Gimli's ear and was rapidly exchanging news with the ruddy-haired Dwarf. Despite his delight at the success of the Ringbearers, and the vanquishing of Sauron, he found that his desire to feast and celebrate diminished quickly. He had a yearning to converse with Lord Elrond, and to speak quietly with those closest him. Instead, he was wedged between two friends whom were too busy to speak to him, and separated from the woman he had come to depend on.

Still, his lips twitched unconsciously as his eyes passed over Gimli's close-shorn beard. He had heard of the sacrifice of the son of Glóin, trimming short his lustrous facial hair so as not to be discovered as he and Sam traipsed through Mordor in the guise of _yrch_. Still, Glorfindel's generous nature could not quite quell the delighted amusement he felt at seeing a Dwarf reduced to being as clean-shaving as one of the Eldar. Gimli's beard was just beginning to sprout, in short red tufts that made him appear to be a young Dwarrow once more. Legolas, it seemed, was most understanding of the dire circumstances that had resulted in such a decision. Glorfindel was not nearly so confident in his own self-control.

He had established early in the feast that he could not reach one particular figure with his eyes—Elanor. The King's table was crowded, and as the party had approached the girlish form of his betrothed had been swept away to another seat in the company of her sister. She had been parted from him with a bright smile and moved amongst the masses to be seated with Georgia, a small knot of Gondorian ladies and several lower-ranking officers of the various houses of Men. Seeing her gathered amongst them had caused a great surge of pride within him, for she had appeared no less queenly and beautiful wedged between two ladies of reputed appeal. To his surprise, Glorfindel had discovered that the attire of Gondor suited his lady better than the Elvish garb he had first observed her in. She still favoured the Elvish tunics and breeches, which made her appear more Eldar than Edain, but the dress of clear green that she wore to the feast made her eyes shine like emeralds.

 _It has been scarce two weeks since you asked Elanor to wed you, and already you behave as a cave-troll with a sore head when she is not at your side!_

The Elf shook his head to rouse himself.

 _By rights, she should also be seated hither._

 _Yet who would recognise her aid? There is naught that can be told unless you desire to unveil her, though the hope she carried convinced Lord Elrond of his course and spurred many to action, not least among those yourself. She should not have been given a seat upon a table so lofty even as the third, had she not appeared so regal and been part of Elrond's company. Remember well, Glorfindel, for she has no heritage to recommend her. You love her, and are enraptured with her mix of gravity and gayness, wisdom and girlish exuberance. Not all are afforded such insight concerning this foreign lady._

He smiled somewhat absently, as he had become prone to doing whilst dwelling upon Elanor's animated expressions and quick, even smile.

 _Am I wrong to desire her near?_

 _Perhaps not; the fact you cannot even spy her sunshine hair amidst the crowd does not please you._

 _No indeed._

Glorfindel attempted to gather his wits for the second time in five minutes. He ought to have been conversing with one of Aragorn's captains, or with the King himself. He knew that the Ranger-turned-ruler regarded his counsel highly, but could not muster the will to assert his right to conversation. Aragorn was already overrun with other advisors, clamouring for his attention as the new and lordly King. The thought of challenging the overwhelming flurry of people made him shudder. Later, perhaps, when he could speak to Aragorn as they had been wont to do many years previous, in Imladris.

Glancing along the table in cleverly concealed boredom, Glorfindel's keen eye fell upon the broad and mighty form of Boromir, son of Denethor. This subject held his attention for longer than any other, primarily because the man had been the first to discover Elanor—his Elanor.

 _And he has given up the Stewardship_ … came a stray thought.

 _A shrewd man. He has made his peace with the King, yet there would never have been harmony between Lords Aragorn and Boromir. Faramir shall work better alongside the King._

 _Still, he is a mighty captain. His survival shall be of great benefit to Gondor, for he shall lead the men better than many others should._

 _Then Elanor was right to save him?_

Glorfindel stared hard at Boromir for a moment. The raven-haired Gondorian was frowning at a nameless, armour-clad man who sat across from him. His lips moved, yet his words were lost in the din. There was a great hardness about the elder son of the former Steward, and his face was less fair and pleasing to look upon than Faramir's, whom Glorfindel had chanced upon briefly whilst visiting Elanor in the Houses of Healing. He was proud, certainly, and not cruel, but he lacked the gentleness and nobility which could plainly be seen was bestowed upon his brother and Aragorn.

 _One of the two charges you hold against the man has been freely confessed to you by Elanor, and herself at fault. Would you condemn such a man to death merely because he faltered?_

A flicker of a frown disturbed his fair face, as an image of one dark-haired Elf came to mind, one vice-like hand gripping the arm of a fearful child and the other holding a knife to a woman's throat. He flicked it aside with shaky contempt.

 _And if one continues to falter?_

 _You would deal judgement so rashly?_

 _If it threatened those I loved—_

The thought hung in his mind for a moment before he gathered himself for what felt like the dozenth time.

 _It does not do to dwell upon grim matters at a feast_ , he told himself, firmly, and forced himself to turn to his right where Elrohir sat amidst the sea of noisy people. And whilst he made a fair pretence at listening to Elrond's son speak with Imrahil's second, Glorfindel's thoughts were far away, with two ladies of sunshine hair and faces fair.

* * *

Elanor breathed.

The fragrant air was medicine after the increasingly stuffy air of the pavilion. Twilight had fallen, and the camp had begun to disperse. She had departed as early as she could without appearing impolite, taking a circuitous route through the tent so she might pass by the King's table and catch Glorfindel's eye.

She smiled.

The Elf had seemed to inflate with relief when he had seen her, and she ambled slowly back towards the commander's clearing in the hopes he would hasten to catch her.

She was not disappointed.

She had barely passed the Field of Cormallen by she heard the barest hint of light footsteps and Glorfindel fell into step beside her, his towering frame comforting as he took her hand.

"Did you enjoy that?" she inquired playfully.

"Tremendously," he replied, punctuated by a thin-lipped smile. "And you?"

Elanor shook her head. "Goodness," she sighed, "I've never been so uncomfortable. I ran into Eärendur." Seeing Glorfindel's raised eyebrows, she laughed. "I don't mean we physically collided, but we were seated together."

"Ah," the Elf chuckled. "I imagine that was undesirable." He swung their clasped hands slightly as they passed beneath the trees.

"Torturous," said Elanor, frankly.

"I presume he's noticed you're engaged?"

She feigned surprise. "Do you think so?"

"Perhaps," Glorfindel laughed, and pulled her gently away from the main path into the trees. "Come; I wish to walk beneath the stars and hear no voice save your own."

Elanor sighed. "With pleasure. Eärendur looked like a wistful puppy when he saw me. He was most polite, and boyish, and I do still like him. He's fun, and he still appears more youthful than any of the other Rangers. Should you have not spoken, I might have married him—had he asked," she added, honestly.

Glorfindel seemed to hesitate at little at her side, and Elanor's heart skipped a beat in anxiety. Then he laughed.

"It is well, then, that I spoke."

"How did you find it, Glorfindel? Honestly."

He stared out at the slender forms of tree and shrub and creeper vine for a time before speaking.

"Rather unpleasant. I should have been perfectly satisfied had I been given the pleasure of admiring you, albeit from some distance. Yet you were just out of my reach, and truth be told, I found myself desiring quietude rather than exuberant celebration. To sit with Elrond and Gandalf, and perhaps Estel, watching the latter two smoke their pipes and recline in chairs back in Imladris would have been far more to my taste. I suppose, dearest," he grinned, pausing in his stride to kiss the top of her fair head, "that I am growing old."

"Old?" Elanor scoffed. "Never." She glanced up at him expectantly, seeming disinclined to walk until he had planted a kiss upon her lips. Her cheeks pink after he had obliged her, she grasped his hand and moved forward at a half-skip.

"Did you observe Lord Boromir?" Glorfindel inquired, as they passed further into the trees. The sunlight no longer filtered through the canopy, for the sky was purple in dusk. He angled towards what Elanor believed was a clearing they had often walked in, for the stars were bright beyond the treetops.

"No," came his fiancee's reply, a little slow. She had considered it only right to confess to Glorfindel her previous relationship with Tim in it's entirety, Eärendur's love for her, and her inebriated stupidity towards Boromir as early as she could contrive it. She had not wished to conceal anything from the Elf which could cause trouble later, knowing their standards to be utterly different to her own. Still, she had been surprised to discover that it was not unknown for Elves to court and then return the rings of their betrothal and not marry. Glorfindel had considered it out of the ordinary, but it hadn't shattered his regard for her. Such a breaking of an engagement might only occur if the relationship had not been consummated, however.

 _At least that wasn't a problem…_ she thought, and glanced down to hide a blush.

"You are aware he has surrendered the Stewardship to Lord Faramir?"

"Yes," she smiled, grateful to redirect the conversation. "Lord Faramir was intended to take the Stewardship, in my version of the story anyway, were Boromir to have died. And," she lowered her voice despite knowing they were some distance from any ears, "he and Éowyn hit it off very well. That's supposed to work out, too. I believe they would rule together well. I like Éowyn a good deal, and will be pleased to see her again."

Glorfindel appeared bemused. "I strive to ascertain the meaning of your mannerisms Elanor, for I delight to hear you speak so freely. But I do not—"

Elanor laughed—hard.

"Elanor—"

By the time she had recovered, she was breathing hard and her stomach muscles ached. She straightened and dusted off her hands on the soft linen of her green gown, merriment still dancing in her eyes. Glorfindel was watching her in amusement, leaning against a tree with his arms folded. Even at six-and-a-half feet, he was perfectly proportioned and at ease. There was nothing gangly or awkward about the well-muscled, catlike frame. His pose, however, was strangely reminiscent of Tim. As she stilled her breaths, Elanor realised it had been some time since she had lingered upon her boyfriend from home—and that the memories no longer hurt.

 _Can it really be so long that…_

"Sorry," she managed at last, smiling. "'Hit it off' means to get on really well, to like one another, to interact politely and find favour. And for something to 'work out' is for it to come right."

"That much I assumed," Glorfindel said, wryly. He left the tree he leaned against and reached out to straighten a jewelled pin which had fallen askew in his fiancee's hair. Elanor's breathing nearly stopped as his hands ran feather-like across her curls—which had continued to grow at an alarming rate—and hesitated. He brushed one finger along her jawline and smiled, before taking up her hand and continuing to walk along the forest path. It took several steps before she could inhale again. Fortunately, they came to a break in the trees, where the canopy parted altogether and they could observe the bright glimmers of the stars. The distraction afforded her a moment to gather her composure.

Glorfindel led her to a place where the grass grew thick and soft, and helped her sit. He dropped to the ground beside her, settling so she might lean against his chest and be comfortable. For a good while, they merely observed the heavens. Elanor was so distracted by Glorfindel's closeness that she barely paid any heed to the orbs of light which made their appearance one by one, but she knew that he enjoyed this time of evening and chose not to disturb him. As twilight became full dark and the last heavenly body was unveiled, she half turned towards him.

"What are you thinking about, Glorfindel?"

Her fiancee paused.

"Many things, Elanor."

"Too many to mention?"

He chuckled, and his chest rumbled against Elanor's back.

"Never, love. Truth be told, I was considering Lord Boromir, and another I once knew whom bears some resemblance to him, and dwelling upon the life previous." He seemed to shake himself. "Not happy thoughts, though with you so close it is a wonder I can consider anything that is not joyous." He reached one arm around, stretching across her folded arms and clasping her near. His breath tickled one side of her face. "A peculiar day, Sunstar, for my thoughts wander. Whilst you were beyond my reach, I could not stir my thoughts from you, and now you are present I find they wander. 'Tis my own folly. Come, speak to me of pleasanter things."

Elanor sat a moment, very still. The hint of grimness in his frame, so easy to discern with his arm about her, bespoke more than he divulged. As if he read the concern in her mind, he leaned down closer to one cheek and kissed it. Her worries fled.

"Shall I tell you what Georgia said to some of the Gondorian soldiers?" she asked, with a laugh.

"I anticipate it greatly," Glorfindel replied, with a satisfied sigh. "Though I believe the tale must be told upon the road. I should dwell hither by your side evermore, if I could—and we shall, someday—though I promised your foster-brothers I should converse with them a little this evening. They say that you have stolen me away from them. What say you to such an accusation?"

Elanor laughed as Glorfindel steadied her back as he climbed to his feet and pulled her upwards. She looked up at him, the starlight glinting pale on his hair and in the blue of his eyes.

"I would deny it wholeheartedly."

Glorfindel took her by the hand once more, and the pair passed out of the open clearing. As they trod the path beneath the trees, the laughter of both man and woman echoed skyward at Georgia's antics. It died away softly with their passing, leaving the forest silent save for the chirping of the crickets and the rustle of leaves.

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **I faer nîn meren - my spirit is joyous**

* * *

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: In this chapter, Glorfindel refers briefly to "an image of one dark-haired Elf came to mind, one vice-like hand gripping the arm of a fearful child and the other holding a knife to a woman's throat." I'm just curious if any of you guys have any idea to whom I am referring in this brief snippet? I'm sure many of you will know it if I divulge it, but I want to see if I made it clear enough. :)**

 **I realise that this chapter isn't hugely essential to the plot, save to reveal that Gimli and Sam are awake and have been honoured, and to further the Glorfanor plotline (this time, minus the angst). I promise things will pick up a bit from here - Chapter 40 will involve the return to Gondor. Elanor will meet with Éowyn, and I've got a few things to introduce which are up my sleeve. :D**

 **Hope you liked it, I would _love_ to get any reviews that you guys think of. And _please_ post your responses to the question I pose about the mention in the Glorfindel POV section.**

 **Hope you're all doing well!**

 **Finwe. x**


	40. Bliss and Midsummer

**Chapter 40 - Bliss and Midsummer**

* * *

 **May 3rd, 3019 (Third Age)**

The air was sweet and fragrant, full to bursting with the scents of mown grass and budding flowers. A gentle breeze slipped over the higher levels of Minas Tirith like gusts of perfume. From the top of the city near the doors to the Citadel, one was afforded a magnificent visage. The Pelennor Fields were alive with busy figures and the soothing sway of the grass, unbroken save by Rammas Echor. The landscape galloped away from them, swallowed up by a warm haze and pleasantly obscuring the rather grim peaks of Ephel Dúath.

Elanor stood at the brink of the wall, upon the peculiar jutting rock formation which thrust outwards from the walls of the city. The breeze tickled her hair, which curled to the base of her spine in sunlight waves. She was staring dreamily out at the scene spread below her, and it seemed rather like a child's play-mat in it's magnificent form and vivid colours.

Had one compared the woman lost in a reverie upon Minas Tirith's battlements with the woman who first appeared upon the plains of Cardolan, one might notice several immediate, physical differences. The close-cropped hair about her chin had given way to the lustrous mass which glowed in gilt ringlets. The polyester fabric and machine-stitched seams of the dress worn to the medieval festival was lost in memory, replaced instead by a silken gown of softest green, the colour of sea-foam and pale, budding birches. It's collar was high, clasped about her throat and traced in tiny beads, whilst the bodice fitted her slim form like a glove.

Still, there was much the same about the scarcely-more-than-girl. Her skin was not quite so brown as the Elanor's of old, though she maintained the smooth, golden complexion which made her stand out amongst the fairer-skinned Rohirrim. The deep-set green eyes no longer appeared so shadow-rimmed, despite the lack of concealer in Middle-earth—a tragedy which Elanor could never entirely reconcile herself to. The lashes were still black, the nose small and upturned—albeit devoid now of freckles—and the face slim and tapering to a pointed chin. Her lips curled up a little at the corners, and she had acquired a pair of droplet earrings which sparkled upon her lobes in fairy-like flashes of green. Altogether, she maintained much of her former appearance. To a casual observer, she was Elanor Ravenscroft, playing at dress-ups in an exceedingly well-fashioned medieval gown of finest silk.

Nonetheless, there was a certain alteration in her air. Her posture was unfalteringly good, though this could have perhaps been attributed to the unrelenting corset which hugged her figure. The light in her eyes—the vivacity, wit and bright interest—was no less diminished, yet it had been tempered. There was compassion there in greater measure, and patience grown in the face of exasperation; the sarcasm and yearning for control had been softened by a kind of wry acceptance; she had learned better to notice, to care and to love. Altogether, the fresh-faced woman of twenty-two had come to tastefully encompass both the spirit of the girl and the grace of womanhood.

And—dare she tempt fate—she was rather happy.

Minas Tirith was, undoubtedly, not Rivendell, but Elanor found immense relief in returning to the White City. It was a bastion of strength, and a humbling reminder of the soldiers who had given their lives to save Middle-earth and it's beauty. The Tower of the Guard had housed her for some time, through greatest joy and deepest sorrow. Ruefully, she recalled the self-interested desperation for her loved ones to survive during those days—and felt rather sheepish as she considered that, to a large degree, her selfish desire to become a recluse in an Elf-haven had not been quenched.

 _If you'd been named the foster-sister of Boromir and Faramir, or some other hoity-toity title, and given a place in high court, you'd be happy to stay here—admit it! It's just because here, you're a nobody, and you don't like being a nobody. You'd rather go back to Rivendell, where Elrond will dote on you, and Elladan and Elrohir will treat you like a princess, and…_

A frown creased her brow, and she glanced away from the breathtaking landscape.

 _Well, it's not like I'm a complete nobody here! That's hardly fair, anyway. Besides, I'm perfectly happy; I get to join in, but not made a fuss of._

 _To be fair, they don't know what to do with you! You're human, but not of the Rohirrim, even though you're friends with the King's sister and future wife of the Steward of Gondor. Faramir and Boromir know you, but cannot vouch for your rank. You're tightly woven amongst the Elves, being betrothed to one of their greatest and foster-sister to one of the greatest Elf-lords, yet that means nothing in Gondor._

 _If anything, it makes it worse… Elves are almost taboo._

 _True. So they awkwardly place you and Georgia amongst the ladies of Gondor—with whom you have no acquaintance—and you're whispered about because you're constantly gallivanting off with peculiar folk._

 _Not to mention we're well-clothed but of unknown heritage, and somehow manage to spend time in company with—_

"Good afternoon, Lady Elanor."

She twisted hurriedly away from the wall, surprised that she had missed hearing the footsteps of a newcomer. The astonishment was doubled when she saw Boromir standing before her, with a tread heavy enough that it would, ordinarily, have woken her from deepest slumber.

"Lord Boromir," she said, hurriedly, curtseying with appropriate deference. She grasped hurriedly for an appropriate remark, but found none. They had not spoken directly since before the celebration at Cormallen, and whilst that interview had passed smoothly, Elanor felt none of the ease as when she spoke with the gentler, soft-eyed Faramir.

She flushed as the silence grew a little heavy.

"You appear well, my lady," he proffered. He glanced at her from beneath his dark brows, grey eyes steely but filled with a kind of gruff politeness.

"I am, my lord; well indeed. The hospitality of the Minas Tirith is indeed—magnificent," Elanor managed, glad to find her tongue.

Boromir smiled, his hard face changed even with so small a gesture as the tilting of his mouth. "I am glad you find it so. Gondor is close to my heart; I love the White City dearly."

Elanor studied him for a moment, discarding awkwardness to stare directly into his face.

"I can see as much, my lord."

He gave a slightly stiff nod, and Elanor subdued a smile.

She could not be rid of the memory of her first impression of Boromir of Gondor; _"stern, and proud, and rather awe-inspiring"_ but _"certainly not unlikeable"_ with his other-worldly air and chiselled, noble face. To own the truth, he no longer appeared so very other-worldly—the Elves were difficult to grow accustomed to, but Elanor found the fair and proud race of Men reasonably easy to accept. Boromir was gruff, gentlemanly and, she imagined, possessed of a very hot temper, but she was deeply glad she had not allowed him to perish near the Falls of Rauros.

Smiling a little, she stepped away from the wall and gestured back towards the citadel.

"Will you walk a while with me, my lord?"

He nodded. "I should be glad to, Lady Elanor."

The pair began a gentle amble back towards the core of the city, Elanor absently toying with the fabric of her skirt whilst Boromir clasped his hands stiffly behind him. They were not the only ones abroad upon the Place of the Fountain; several others had ventured out to the Embrasure to drink in the scenery. A flock of noblewomen were loitering about, fanning themselves and speaking quietly. Elanor noted with amusement the furtive glances they stole in her direction, and silently dared them to speculate about her friendship with the Steward's brother. Her engagement to an Elf had not been wantonly publicised.

 _Not till Elrond gets here, anyway._

"I do not mean to intrude upon private matters, Lord Boromir," Elanor began, the latter thought stirring a question, "though I do have a question I should ask of you, if I may."

"Speak as you will, my lady."

"You have made good your promise to abdicate in favour of Faramir," she said. "I am a little curious, though more desirous to know what you shall occupy yourself with in the stead of the role of Steward."

They walked another dozen paces before Boromir answered.

"Perhaps you shall consider me foolish," he remarked, with the ghost of a smile. "Yet I believe I am ill-suited to the Stewardship. I—we have spoken of this before, I believe. I maintain my supposition that the reins of power are better placed in Faramir's hands."

Elanor glanced over at him, her lip quirked as if she could read his thoughts. "And I stand by my earlier assessment."

"You must remind me, Lady Elanor."

"That you are wise to take such a course; a weak man could not have done as much. Also, that King Aragorn shall rule well."

Boromir shook his head and smiled wryly.

"Forgive me," Elanor broke in, with a sheepish grin. "I am ever swift to speak and sometimes a little heedless."

 _You could say that. Good thing he's more patient now than he used to be, or he'd—_

"Not at all, lady," he replied, an unforeseen twinkle in his grey eyes as he looked down at her from his mighty height. "'Twas well-spoken. Nay, I have been humbled, though I daresay I will ever be as proud a man as my father; and still better, perhaps, for never having been Steward of Gondor." He paused before diverting the subject. "My wounds have healed swift and well, thanks to the ministrations of thy foster-kin and betrothed. Nevertheless, I still cannot comprehend the swiftness and timing of Lord Glorfindel in coming to my aid upon the banks of the Anduin; should he have tarried but a moment, I should not stand before thee."

 _Well, at least the one change you did manage to instigate in Middle-earth turned out pretty well!_

Elanor smiled warmly. "It pleases me to hear this. Still, you have neglected to answer the second and more important part of my query." Boromir attempted to look chastened. "What shall you do with yourself?"

"I shall continue as Captain of the Guard," he replied, with yet another smile— _that's got to be a record!_ —and shook his head. "It is a task to which I daresay I am well-suited, and it should please me to serve Lord Aragorn and my brother in this manner. After all," he added, with a look which might have passed for an roguish grin, "I know well that younger siblings need looking-after."

Elanor laughed merrily, the girlish sound tinkling across the courtyard and causing several of the Gondorian noblewomen to turn with looks of envy as green as the Elvish fosterling's gown. The impishness of Boromir's remark was unlooked-for, yet pleasing.

"Ah! You read my thoughts most aptly, lord! What impression have you formed of Georgia?" Elanor grinned, seemingly unfazed by her sister's incorrigibility. Boromir's diminished awkwardness and her sense of satisfaction lent her a playfulness which merely added to her beauty—and the jealousy of the nearby women. She was wickedly curious to know what Boromir thought of Georgia's impulsive and, often, unseemly behaviour.

"One cannot help but observe the kinship between you."

The lady stopped short in unfeigned amazement. " _Kinship_! I hope you do not mean to insult me, my lord!"

"Nay, never!" Boromir replied. "If I speak frankly, I considered you outspoken, uncouth and peculiar during much of our sojourn in Rivendell—" Elanor held back a half-biting remark "—and yet cannot employ those terms now. Perhaps it is the life of a soldier, yet I have rarely encountered women of intelligence and wit—" _Oh really, Boromir?_ "—and it is refreshing to converse with a woman who is… equal in the faculties of the mind."

Elanor glanced downwards, caught between horror and laughter at the man's remarks.

"I am flattered," she half-stammered, ocean-eyes twinkling in soundless mirth.

He nodded thoughtfully, wandering deeper in contemplation. "Still, there is a similarity with your sister, which is altogether foreign to the ladies of the South."

"I see."

There was a pause.

"Ah, forgive me; I am most remiss. I have neglected to congratulate you on your engagement to Lord Glorfindel, though I am aware that such an arrangement cannot be formalised until Lord Elrond gives his blessing. Still, it brings me joy," he said, looking down at her in a fatherly fashion. "I pray you shall be very happy."

Elanor smiled. "Thank you; few in this land have dwelt among the Elves for a time as you have, and I believe they look askance at our engagement. My heart is gladdened to know our friends do not say as much."

"Nay; Lord Glorfindel hath doted upon thee for months." He grinned again, astounding Elanor with his cheerfulness. "I should have prophesied as much in Rivendell!"

Boromir seemed to run out of words then, for he was not by nature fond of such introspective conversation and soon reverted to the quasi-stern, painful politeness which Elanor could not help but find rather endearing. They continued to the far edge of the courtyard, zigzagging aimlessly from side to side once or twice until the silence grew burdensome and the remaining polite civilities had run dry. As the would-be Steward bowed and departed, Elanor indulged in an amused smirk.

 _That was fun._

One of the noblewomen shot her an acid look as Boromir's back was turned. Feeling rather mischievous, Elanor ran her middle finger along the side of her face and paused with it upon her chin. The gesture felt triumphant, though it appeared to befuddle the ladies mightily. Laughing into her sleeve, she turned and departed the courtyard for the wing in which she and Georgia had been housed during their previous stay in Minas Tirith.

* * *

Boromir strode away with a light expression that appeared almost foreign upon his countenance. As his heavy boots made tremors upon the marble floor of the citadel, he shook his head. His sense of pride appeared to have fled, and he marvelled at his own frivolity in dealing with Lady Elanor.

The latter's question concerning her sister, Lady Georgia, had thrown him off balance. His earliest calculation of the peculiar women from another land had led him to the assumption that the younger lacked something the elder possessed so fluently. The precise deficiency remained a slippery object, for Georgia was far more ebullient than Elanor; prettier, too, with her light brown hair, and hazel eyes which had caused him to start at her appearance. Such tones were almost unknown in the south, though he believed that the folk of Dale tended towards such colouring. Elanor was friendly and straightforward; her sister could captivate an audience like a practiced politician.

Nevertheless, he was forced to conclude, he should choose Lady Elanor's company over her sister's without hesitation. The guilelessness which he so admired in the golden-haired woman with her understanding eyes was utterly lacking in Georgia; he felt as if she were watching him with foxlike calculation whenever they spoke, and it unnerved him. Much of Elanor's appeal was in her disregard for the cunning machinations of the Gondorian court.

 _Lord Glorfindel is fortunate indeed!_

 _True enough. They shall be happy._

That, he discovered, gave him a great sense of satisfaction, rather than jealousy. Whilst Elanor no longer appeared to be a lost girl, Boromir was unable to shake the flickers of paternal interest he had concerning her. To see the bewildered child with the deer-like eyes transform into the composed and pleasing woman so at home in Gondor's court—for, you see, he did _not_ observe Elanor giving the rude finger to the other ladies—was immensely gratifying. He was able to forget her moment of indiscretion in the corridor of many nights ago, for she had proven repeatedly that such unseemly behaviour was as distasteful to herself as to him. He found it difficult to overlook her unknown heritage, for blood was of paramount importance amongst the nobility of Gondor, but her decorum, intelligence and pleasant manners logically dispelled many doubts.

 _Still, 'tis a pity she should not have wedded Faramir. He appears very much in love with Lady Éowyn; yet I cannot help but think…_

 _That Elanor should have been a sweet presence in the Citadel? A hint of Lady Finduilas perhap, like a breath upon the air?_

Boromir smiled a little wistfully to himself as he wove the corridors with practiced feet.

 _Aye._

* * *

It had been only two days since their return from the Field of Cormallen, and in that interlude Elanor had spent the majority of her time in company with Éowyn and Georgia. Both Glorfindel and Faramir had been swept up in helping to establish Aragorn upon the throne, and the women had taken comfort in one another's company. In less than a week, Elladan and Elrohir would join the Riders of Rohan and depart for Edoras and—in the case of Elrond's sons—travel thence to Rivendell. Éowyn would join them as far as her homeland.

To Elanor's delight, she discovered that Aragorn had pleaded with the members of the Fellowship to remain; he was loth for it to be dissolved. Thus, Glorfindel, Elanor and Georgia would all stay longer in the city. Aragorn had also spoken in veiled phrases of a day long-awaited, and whilst none of the others could discern the meaning of this riddle, Elanor had rejoiced inwardly for her foster-sister's coming happiness. Glorfindel and Georgia were also aware of the impending wedding through various means, and the three frequently exchanged furtive glances to that effect.

Elanor sighed in mild exasperation as she made her way back to Éowyn's suite of rooms where the three women had taken up residence during the day. Georgia's manner was diluted by Éowyn's presence, but it could still be a little wearing. The Lady of Rohan was far brighter than Elanor had ever seen her, and her musings on Boromir were cut short as she turned her thoughts to Éowyn.

Gone was the intrepid hopelessness which had been cause for concern in Elanor's books. She was no longer grim and cold; Éowyn might never be a match for Georgia in high spirits, but in these days her grey eyes held light and mirth and she was particularly animated when the conversation turned to Lord Faramir.

 _I guess spring really is the time for romance,_ Elanor laughed to herself as she arrived at the suite next-door to her own. Hearing laughter from inside, she entered without announcing herself.

Over-exuberant as she might be, Elanor had to give Georgia credit for being a fearless hostess. For, sitting on the elegant seats in Éowyn's suites were a peculiar assortment of individuals, enough to make Elanor raise an eyebrow at the potential for disaster. In the centre was Georgia, presiding like a queen who called forth an offering of mirth from her subjects.

Seated upon one couch were Elrond's twins and Legolas, the brown head wedged between the two black ones. They sat upright and broad of shoulder, yet maintaining the relaxed and careless grace of the Elves. Gimli was in an armchair nearby, distracted from mourning over the short red stubble which grew on his face as he let out a rumbling chuckle about something Georgia said. He appeared remarkably short and squat between Elladan and Éomer, who occupied the next seat. Unlike the Elves, who managed to appear easy, he perched painfully straight upon the edge of his chair. Georgia was immediately to his left, and he surveyed her out of the corner of his eye distrustfully, as if he did not know what to do with such a spirited and unrestrained individual.

Elanor paused upon the threshold, spellbound by Georgia's ability to captivate an audience.

 _Wasn't it just like this at the festival?_

 _Well, yeah._

Her arrival had, as yet, gone unnoticed by all—save one. Glorfindel was standing behind the couch to Georgia's left hand, upon which sat Éowyn and Faramir, rather distracted by one another. Her fiancee's blue eyes glinted as he smiled in greeting.

 _Good to know Georgia hasn't got everyone wrapped around her little finger…_

Not wishing to cause a disturbance, Elanor slipped around until she stood at Glorfindel's side. His hand sought hers wordlessly, and she was struck by a rush of satisfaction. The company assembled was a pleasant one— _except Éomer, who looks like someone just waved a nasty smell beneath his nose—_ and the laughter issuing from all about the room indicated that Georgia probably hadn't put her foot in it—yet.

Thus, Elanor decided it was a good opportunity to tune into the conversation.

"—wouldn't know quite how to describe them; I took them for granted, mostly," Georgia was saying. "Rather like a wagon, or carriage of some kind, but not pulled by horses. They were moved by a special piece of machinery—very advanced—that propelled them forwards."

 _Oh… no._

Elanor would have thrown something to distract her sister, if there had been anything to hand. As it were, the tension in her body must've betrayed her to Glorfindel, who leaned down to whisper into her ear.

"Do not trouble yourself; she has said naught to betray you. I should have prevented it had she trod dangerously. She has been speaking for some time, and shown surprising caution." Elanor detected a smile in the last phrase. As he stood upright, Glorfindel squeezed her hand.

 _If she does, I'll…_

 _Throttle her._

 _Yep. The last thing we need is someone to burn us at the stake for being witches, or… something._

"How does one encourage such objects to move?" inquired Faramir mildly. Hearing the Steward of Gondor discussing automobiles was almost enough to make Elanor laugh.

Georgia grinned. "One waters horses, doesn't one? Well, it is much the same. Except these—things—their proper name is a 'car', or 'automobile'—need an odd drink. It's like, well—you're the chemistry whiz, Elanor, how would you put it?"

Elanor stared blankly at her sister for a moment before she realised she had been addressed. The remainder of the party watched her expectantly.

"Oh," she managed, after a moment of gaping like a goldfish. Then, rising to the occasion, she smiled. "It's a highly-flammable hydrocarbon with chains of generally between four and twelve atoms in length; a petroleum hydrocarbon."

This was met with stunned silence; even Georgia was lost for words for several seconds. Then she gave an almost imperceptible nod, something which caused Elanor to smile; the nod plainly said, _"Well done."_

* * *

 **24th June, 3019 (Third Age)**

The sky was blue as sapphire and white stars had opened in the East, but the West was still golden, and the air was soothingly cool. Elanor ambled along in perfect bliss, the breeze causing her hair to blow becomingly about her cheeks. Glorfindel, half a dozen metres ahead, turned to survey his fiancee.

The summer suited his lady well, for the setting sun glinted upon her hair and heightened the colour of her golden skin. She wore a gown of very fine, light silk in soft grey to combat the warmth of high summer. It swayed as she moved; not sensuously, for Elanor was unsure how to be sensuous, and any attempt would have made her look awkward. Rather, it was an abstracted grace, as she gazed out from the city walls to the eastern twilight.

Glorfindel smiled to himself as he turned back to the path, moving slowly as he sought among the flowers for one that he desired. The weeks of May and June had been uncompromisingly peaceful, and Elanor his delight. Had an outsider pointed out his future wife's propensity to worry, her short temperedness, her reluctance to leave comfort, her pride, or her lack of patience in certain matters, he should have stared blankly at them and, in love-blind honesty, replied, "Of what, exactly, are you speaking?"

Truth be told, he was as smitten as a century-old _ellon,_ rather than a seasoned campaigner. Her worries made him chuckle behind his hand; her propensity to speak sharply and be filled with contrition moment's later was rather endearing. She might be a home-body with a love of luxury, but she was so generous with sharing comforts that he could not fault it.

 _Erestor should say I have grown soft_ , he thought, ruefully. The thought drifted aside as he discovered the flower he sought and plunged into the garden bed to retrieve it. He emerged a moment later, bearing bud-like white flowers.

"Elanor," he called, smiling. She glanced up from a study of a rose—they had intrigued her since she discovered they were quite different to her home-world—and returned his smile, moving to greet him.

"Yes, dear?"

He held out the flowers.

"Baby's breath!" she cried, hurrying forward with a look of utmost pleasure. "Glorfindel, where did you find it!" She grasped it in rapture. "Oh, Mum used to grow this! I haven't seen it in _months_!"

Glorfindel's lip quirked as he watched her turn them over in her hands. "I know not what the people of Gondor call such plants, but I suppose 'baby's breath' is an apt enough name. I merely thought they should look well in your hair."

"Oh, would you put it in?" Elanor breathed, holding it back out to him. She whirled and presented him with the back of her head. "Please! I always—" She broke off, as if embarrassed.

"Yes?" he asked, surveying her curls. They had been loosely pulled back into an arrangement at the nape of her neck, with several wisps loose in a maddeningly lovely fashion. Reaching out gently, he began to tuck in the tiny flowers, weaving them with gentle fingers. "What did you mean to say, Elanor?"

She gave a little laugh. "Only that I always dreamed I should have these flowers in my hair at my wedding. It's silly, I—"

Glorfindel's face was lit with amusement. Finishing the floral arrangement, he turned Elanor by her shoulders and kissed her upon the lips before she could continue. Surprised only for a half-second, she reached out and grasped his shoulder with one hand and his neck with the other. He began to tug her closer when someone pointedly cleared their throat nearby.

Elanor broke the kiss off hurriedly, and they turned in their embrace to face the source of the disturbance. A messenger stood there—Barhador, Glorfindel realised.

"Yes?" he inquired mildly, conscious that Elanor was blushing in his arms.

"Lord Glorfindel; King Aragorn sent me to summon you, saying that Lord Elrond hath arrived."

Glorfindel tensed, his whole great frame filled with a sudden burst of elation. "They have come at last! Where shall we meet them?"

"The King shall journey downwards from the Citadel, my lord."

Elanor gave one of her sweet laughs. "Oh, thank you Barhador! Come, let us go," she continued, turning to face Glorfindel again, her eyes alight. Being reunited with the party from Rivendell meant as much to his betrothed as to himself, he realised.

 _For they are the only family she now has, save Georgia. This is the day she has longed for all along! The beginning of her home-coming._

"Yes, jewel of my heart, let us go!" he cried, seizing her and whirling her around before he consented to hurry off.

As they neared the entrance to the gardens, Elanor jerked to a stop.

"Glorfindel—my clothes! They shall never do to welcome the Elves!" she cried, looking in distress at the silver-grey gown; it had none of the stiff finery that the ladies of Gondor wore to formal occasions, but was soft and flowing, more Elvish than human.

"Do not trouble yourself," Glorfindel smiled, running a thumb down her cheek. "You look simply lovely; it is merely your foster-family and the household of Rivendell who come! Your sister shall be wed. At least you shall wear 'baby's breath' in your hair for _one_ wedding."

Elanor grinned. "Thank you. Now I shall feel a Queen, dressed in all splendour!"

BREAK

The pair hurried back to the Citadel, where King Aragorn waited ready to set out. He appeared stately and regal, dressed in ceremonial armour. Elanor had long possessed a historical interest in armour, but was disappointed she had no chance to study this particular set.

 _And_ , thought Elanor, _Aragorn looks quite strange with his face clean and his hair neatly trimmed!_

There was nothing of the gruff and grizzled Ranger about Aragorn son of Arathorn in that moment. As Glorfindel and Elanor approached to join his retinue, he smiled. His grey eyes were still deep in wisdom, yet his stone-like countenance had been bathed in the fountain of youth. Elanor could not help but grin back as she and her fiancee curtseyed and bowed respectively.

"My lord King," said Glorfindel, his tone light with amusement which might have been insubordination in anyone other than the Noldorin Elf. "To a wedding, I believe?"

Then Aragorn laughed, and Elanor was rather startled; it was a nice sound, deep and hearty.

"Indeed, Glorfindel; and in many ways I am Estel of old, ere troubles came to haunt me. 'Tis a joyous day, and all those whom I love here to share it!"

And as Elanor glanced about, she realised that the remainder of the Fellowship had also gathered; Merry, Pippin, Sam and Gimli, Legolas, Gandalf, Boromir and her own Glorfindel. They made a merry party, alongside Faramir the Steward, Georgia, and several other of King Aragorn's advisors.

Seized by an impulse, Elanor laughed and met Aragorn's grey eyes. "I am very happy for you, your Majesty," she said simply. "And for Arwen."

The Ranger-turned-King smiled back, and leaned down to take Elanor's hand and kiss it. "You warm my heart, Lady Elanor; as family you shall be to me henceforth!"

Then, in a flurry of activity, those gathered began the descent to the gate of the City. Elanor, her stomach fluttering with excitement—for all of her foster-family should now have returned to her, and she was elated—walked in stately fashion on Glorfindel's arm, whilst he held Georgia on his other side. Her spirit longed to skip and hop and jump and flitter about— _more like Georgia than yourself, Elanor!—_ but the Elf's steady pressure upon her hand kept this exuberance in check. They wove down to the lower levels of the city with painful slowness, and at last came before the Gates of Minas Tirith.

There they stood for some minutes, as a company approached; Elanor's heart nearly burst out of her ribcage, so full of joy.

 _Finally!_ it sang. _Finally, finally! All is well, and Elrond here, and Aragorn and Arwen to be married… and we shall be engaged! And then…_

 _What then?_

 _Back to Rivendell_ , her spirit purred.

Then the fair company was amongst them; first rode her foster-brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, in fine raiment and bearing a banner of silver. Their countenances were smooth, but Elanor could see the sparkle of joy in their eyes. She was pleased to see them, though they had only left Minas Tirith six weeks before. Next came Erestor, his face like a gust of Rivendell's sweet air after so long away. Elanor's breath caught in her chest as she observed the rest of her foster-father's household behind them, all beautifully dressed and so perfectly familiar. There was a trilling in her mind that would not go away; wordless yet exuberant, and she had to prevent herself from fidgeting in her ecstasy. Georgia, standing on the other side of Glorfindel, seemed to notice her exhilaration, for she glanced over with a grin.

Then came a surprising sight; two magnificent white horses, bearing two Elves, and Elanor was afforded one of the magical shocks which had begun to peter out over her time in Middle-earth—her first sight of Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn of Lothlórien.

 _Well they're… perfect._

Both Lord and Lady of Lórien were very tall— _why, she's got to be almost Glorfindel's height!_ —and fair of face. Galadriel's hair was blonde, yet it was not the rich golden of Elanor's and Glorfindel's. Instead, it was a silvery-blonde, closer to platinum. Celeborn's hair was true silver, and both were very fair to look upon. Elanor had not had such a pleasant surprise since she had first become acquainted with Elrond's household. Soon, however, she was distracted by other folk of the Golden Wood, wearing grey cloaks and with white gems fastened in their hair—which was, unlike the Rivendell contingent, largely blonde and silver.

As the final members of the party came into Elanor's view, she wanted to jump and weep all at once.

Master Elrond rode his magnificent black horse, and beside him on a grey palfrey was Arwen—the Evenstar. Her foster-father's face was like the culmination of her joy. So often she had seen it's likeness in the twins, yet it was not the same as being reunited with Elrond himself, mighty amongst both Elves and Men. Here was the one who had drawn her in and taught her to love this Middle-earth, who had nurtured her despite her tantrums and treated her with all the compassion and generosity he possessed.

 _Ada_ , she longed to cry.

Then Georgia was afforded her first sight of Arwen; glimmering in the evening, with stars on her brow and a sweet fragrance about her, and Georgia's face was moved with great wonder. She slipped past Glorfindel and spoke to Elanor in a low voice:

"You know Ellie," she said, whilst the latter continued to watch the proceedings with shining eyes, "a lot of the characters didn't have a standard to live up to. Like, you don't see Glorfindel in the movies, so though he's delightful, I don't compare him to movie-version. And now here's Galadriel, and Arwen—and they're more perfect than Liv and Cate, if that's manageable," she breathed, joining Elanor in a study of the new arrivals. "I just—I can't—"

"Lost for words?" smiled Elanor, glancing down at her sister. "I know the feeling. I want to run and hurl myself at Elrond, but I know I have to wait; this is Arwen and Aragorn's day, not mine."

Georgia studied her sharply for a moment, a searching look full of understanding.

"Don't worry," she whispered back a moment later, a flash of mischief returning to her eyes. "I'm sure they won't want to waste too much time in the ceremony. There are more important things for afte—"

Elanor gave Georgia a sharp nudge, for Aragorn lifted his voice and called out in greeting to the Elves. Elrond alighted, and brought forth the Sceptre of Annúminas—the final token of the King of Gondor and Arnor—and gave Arwen's hand to her beloved. Elanor watched carefully, noting the barely-concealed grief beneath the happiness on Elrond's countenance as Aragorn took Arwen and led the procession back to the High City for the wedding.

 _Why does sorrow always have to mingle with joy?_

 _Because to say yes to one thing, you're saying no to something else. Yes to Glorfindel, no to Tim. Yes to Middle-earth, no to home._

 _Home. Funny, that the word should suddenly bring to mind pictures of Rivendell, and not of my apartment, of Mum and Dad and…_

 _It's not home anymore. You didn't have to almost give your life up to save Australia, or Brisbane. That makes a lot of difference._

 _I guess it does._

* * *

 **Well, that's 40 chapters done, and around 175,000 words! Wow. Did not think I'd ever get this far. Anyways, here's just a little bit of what I'm thinking, as this helps me to get my thoughts in order...**

 **You have several things to look forward to very soon.**

 **1\. Elanor/Glorfindel's official engagement  
2\. Elanor's catch-up with Elrond  
3\. The return of the Rivendell party back northwards, away from Gondor**

 **I'm hoping to get all of the plot stuff happening fairly quickly. I feel like I've kind of lingered in self-gratifying character scenes lately, just enjoying having Elanor and Glorfindel romance one another, and stuff like that. This chapter, I wanted to resolve the friendship between Boromir and Elanor, as there was a bit of awkwardness there because of the drunk-kiss incident. Boromir esteems her as a fatherly-brotherly kind of person; he's seen her go through a lot and he finds her nice to be around as someone who isn't twittering and manipulating and flirting.**

 **I wanted to get Elrond and Arwen's arrival in, but keep things moving. So that happened at the end (sorry it's so mish-mashed!) and next chapter I'm going to include the aforementioned 3 steps (or at least the first 2!) and then move on. The story doesn't stop here, because life goes on after the initial declaration of love. :3 As Aragorn's wedding to Arwen is barely mentioned in _Return of the King_ , I struggled with how to picture such a ceremony. Aragorn doesn't seem one for pomp and I reckon he'd have gotten the wedding down with Elf-fashion - PM me if you want and I can send you a link to one of Tolkien's texts which talks about Elven marriage, etc. It's interesting, and it's what I'll be basing future events on. :D Anyway, I think Aragorn probably would've gone with that, because it involves the Elven families (and explains why both Elrond and Galadriel would have come). I couldn't imagine just how the ceremony, etc. would have gone though, so I left it up to your lovely imaginations. :)**

 **Hope you're still enjoying this exceedingly long, laborious work haha. Trying to keep my characters consistent (which can be tricky across such a *mass* of text) but doing my best. Comments/criticism/corrections are helpful!**

 **As always, I love to get reviews. :) - Finwe.**


	41. A pair of silver rings

**Chapter 41 - A pair of silver rings**

* * *

 **26th June, 3019 (Third Age)**

It felt to Elanor as if a pipe had burst somewhere in her chest, and was now spurting warm liquid joy throughout her entire form. It was only mid-morning—a beautiful day, as if the sky had been freshly laundered and dew was crisp in the air—yet already her face hurt from perpetual smiling.

"Hold still, El," mumbled Georgia, severely impeded by the pins held between her lips. "Otherwise I'll get this all wrong!"

The two sisters stood alone in Elanor's bedchamber. The latter faced the window which opened to the East, eyes twinkling as she stared blindly. Georgia, blessed with an uncanny knack of arranging hair, was busy gathering Elanor's curls into a soft knot on the top of head, encircled by an intricate braid. To this she added the aforementioned pins, tiny flowers made of silver and adamant.

"It's a bit unorthodox," she said, placing the last pin and finally free to speak properly, "but a high-bun always suited you very well Ellie. And it's only the family, so no one will mind."

"Can I look in the mirror now?"

"Yep."

Elanor shuffled carefully to the full-length looking glass, a luxury even in the high circles of Gondor. She had always known that she was quite pretty, and could even manage to be bordering on beautiful when she made an effort. Today her figure—her greatest asset, in her own opinion—was wrapped in deep blue; Oxford Blue, almost inky black. The relatively-light silk gown was embroidered in a pattern of silver stars and flowers, tucking in at the waist—as was Elanor's preference in any dress—and covered in tasteful nips and pleats. It had elbow sleeves and the neckline was a wide v-shape, high enough for modesty yet showing enough of her smooth collarbones as to become her. It was the grandest dress she had ever worn, most probably because to Brúnel, the housekeeper, 'engagement' translated to 'extravagant'. The Elanor in the mirror had managed to outdo herself, for she looked undeniably beautiful that day.

 _Still, I feel as stiff as a starched apron, and not quite like myself._

"You look amazing, El," breathed Georgia, clasping her hands together in rapture.

Elanor smiled softly. "I feel pretty amazing." She turned to embrace her sister. "Thanks, G; my hair—it all looks perfect."

They pulled apart as someone tapped on the door and a maidservant in the black and white livery entered with a curtsey.

"The Queen is here to speak with you, Ladies Elanor and Georgia," she murmured.

"Oh! send her in, please," beamed Elanor, full to capacity with good spirits. A moment later, Arwen entered.

The foster-sisters had only been afforded a chance to speak the day after the wedding. Arwen had glimmered like the starry sky in her joy at being united with Aragorn, and the foster-sisters had enjoyed a thorough chat when the bustle had died down. Georgia had been drawn into this meeting, yet whilst she and Arwen were cordial, they had not become firm friends as the younger Ravenscroft had with Éowyn. They were almost the antithesis of one another, and Georgia's flightiness seemed to set Arwen echelons above her.

Still, the latter smiled warmly as she caught sight of Elanor.

"Sister," she spoke, moving forward to grasp the golden-haired woman's hands. "There are few words to speak of this joy; I am ill-suited to such a task. Yet come, for thy family awaits to celebrate thy engagement."

Elanor grinned. "We are ready. Let's go, Georgia."

* * *

Elrond Peredhel, numbered amongst the Wise, stood patiently in one of the Citadel's many corridors. His fair face was creased a little in study, yet one could not help but remark that he appeared rather content. This premonition was magnified as a door nearby opened and three figures emerged.

He smiled broadly and turned to greet them, taking a hand of each of the foremost two women. Arwen he released after a knowing squeeze, before grasping Elanor's fingers more closely and searching her face with all the earnestness of a father.

"Ada," she smiled, whilst Arwen tactfully led the third woman away to ready herself for the feast.

Elrond drank in the sight of her, the slip of a girl whom he had found it impossible not to love.

"Elanor," he replied, pulling her into an embrace.

 _How long has it been since Lord Boromir delivered her, unconscious, to my care?_

Elanor's eyes beseeched him as she withdrew, suddenly serious.

"Father—is this alright? I would never want to make you angry, and I realise that Glorfindel—Glorfindel and I—we're—"

Elrond chuckled warmly. "Elanor, do not trouble yourself; I am delighted in your happiness, and in that of my dear friend's. His has been a hard road, as yours has been, and—" He petered out smoothly, caught by a sudden gust of emotion. "Come; the others have not yet gathered, and I thought that we might walk for a time before the feast begins." He offered her his arm. "I have not had the pleasure of speaking alone with thee since we arrived."

Elanor flushed pink with pleasure, rather like a small child. Elrond restrained a chuckle as he led her from her rooms to a quiet garden in the High City, near the Citadel. They trod the gravelly path for several minutes in silence, the woman's hand clasping his arm as if his nearness brought her comfort.

 _You have missed her greatly also, Eärendilion. Arwen's departure from Rivendell has been in itself a source of sorrow; yet you cannot deny that Elanor's presence brings you pleasure._

 _Nay, indeed. There is no comfort upon Arda for the loss of Arwen, yet if any might gladden my heart a little in the days that remain to me—it is Elanor._

"So you're not upset with us?" she half-whispered, disturbing his thoughts and capturing his attention with the wide, lash-framed green eyes.

"Upset? Elanor!" Elrond paused, grasping her shoulders with his hands and smiling down upon her. "Little cause do I have to celebrate a union between Elf and Mortal, yet I am gladdened in the depths of my heart! There is naught that is simple or easy in the wedding of the two kindreds—well do I know it." He rubbed her arm with gentle fingers and, spying a seat placed amongst the garden beds, led Elanor to sit upon it before he continued. "Iell, I foresee clearly the difficulties you shall encounter in wedding Glorfindel, yet I find no cause to counsel against it."

Elanor frowned. "I thought—I suppose I assumed you might be a little—disgruntled, at least. Glorfindel has been your advisor and I know he is well regarded amongst the High Elves of the First Age." She gave a rueful smile. "It seems rather like prying, but I read in the books from my home-world how you were reluctant to allow Arwen to marry Aragorn, at least until he had become King, for you are directly descended of some of the noblest of the Elder Days."

 _Aulë above, she is uncanny at times!_

Elrond chuckled. "I confess that I was, yet it is hardly the same in this instance, iell, if that is what concerns you. I shall not withhold my blessing because you are not a Queen."

Elanor didn't manage to look convincingly cheerful. "I—I don't mean to cast any shadow upon your character, ada, for—" She flushed and then glanced at him steadfastly "—I think you're the most wonderful person in Middle-earth—don't tell Glorfindel—and I wouldn't ever want to disregard your counsel or make you unhappy. I had made up my mind that if you were even a little uncertain about our wedding, I would listen."

"Thank the Valar such a course was unnecessary," replied her foster-father, with a wry grin and silent burst of pride. "Nay, Elanor; this is utterly different to Aragorn and Arwen. In that matter I lose a daughter, yet in you I have gained another. I shall make no pretence, for you are not the Evenstar, and none shall replace her in my affections. But am I so foolish a father as to disregard the one whom the Valar hath blessed me with as a comfort in her stead? You are no ordinary mortal, and neither is Glorfindel the same _ellon_ who dwelt in Gondolin. In this I shall speak truly, in saying that you have my blessing, for there is precious little that is still wholesome and good left upon Arda, and I should see love flourish where it is planted."

Elanor struggled valiantly against tears, before several slipped past her dark lashes and Elrond pulled her into a comforting embrace. She did not weep for long, but sat backwards and dabbed at her eyes with dainty fingers.

"Thank you, ada," she laughed, shakily. "You move me with your words. For many months I have set myself to become part of Arda, and to forget my heritage; 'tis a peculiar prospect to now consider it a pleasing attribute. I ceased to celebrate the ways of my home-world ere I had been here two weeks!"

Elrond smiled gently and entwined his large fingers with Elanor's slim ones. "Do not surrender all of your heritage, Elanor. There is much in it that is good and noble, and I love thee for it."

Several tears leaked out as grey eyes met green, before his foster-daughter nodded.

"I will remember that."

"Now, speak to me of your plans; your engagement must stand a year at least, and we shall ride to Edoras and thence to Imladris at the time appointed for King Théoden's funeral. Where do you desire to dwell during such an interlude, Elanor?"

"Oh," she said, without a moment's pause, "in Rivendell! My heart has longed to see it for months now. Minas Tirith is beautiful, but it is not the Last Homely House. I will remain with you until the wedding, next summer—at home."

Elrond nodded in satisfaction, finding it difficult to veil the pride he felt as Elanor referred to the Elvish haven as home. "A wise course."

"Ada?"

"Yes?"

"You're not leaving Middle-earth in the next year, are you?" Elanor stared down at her hands, which rested on the rich fabric of her blue-black gown. He shook his head in an emphatic _no_.

"We shall pass across the sea ere the end of the Third Age, but not until I have seen you happily settled, iell."

Elanor smiled, reassured.

"Thank you."

 _And,_ Elrond added, silently, _the Valar willing, it shall not be the last I see of you, Elanor Ravenscroft. If you are to be deposited on this earth against thy will, I shall see the rulers of Valinor account for such matters!_

* * *

"Are you in need of aid, muin?"

Elanor turned to her foster-father, then glanced back at the chestnut gelding whose reins she held. Fundanár gave a gentle whicker, nudging her shoulder daintily. The proud horse was well over sixteen hands and Elanor realised she had not ever attempted to ride him in such an elaborate dress before.

"I would appreciate that," she smiled sheepishly. Fundanár's saddle was of Elvish make and therefore comfortable, and the full skirt on her gown would allow her to ride astride without compromising her modesty. Elrond lifted her at the waist with ease and placed her side-saddle on her horse's back. Carefully, she swung her right leg over his withers and adjusted her skirt to ensure she was appropriately covered. In the meanwhile, Elrond had sprung upon the back of his black horse with energy which belied his half-a-dozen-thousand years.

"Are we ready?"

"Yes," she replied, and squeezed Fundanár's sides gently so that he moved off in Elrond's wake.

The duo passed swiftly through the city, for horses were scarce in Minas Tirith and the common folk darted out of their way as they trotted briskly past. Elanor found herself oddly taken with the sight of the ordinary people. She had not seen the real citizens of Middle-earth before; both Rohan and Gondor had been armed for war ere she arrived, and her experience limited to the nobility and officer classes.

 _Weird to be in a feudal society like this_ , she realised, as a cluster of women dressed in the plain dark blues and greys of the commoners made way with promptness. _Makes you realise how 'class-less' it's really become in Australia, how we don't have to dress differently because of our rank._ The sight of the simply-clad women with their raven hair and deep grey eyes made Elanor acutely conscious of the extravagance of her own attire, which had been completed with a light silken cloak of grey. Even the clasp on this garment was ornate, and she felt painfully over-dressed as they reached the lowest levels and were given leave to pass the City gates.

 _Maybe it's time to think about social reform in Middle-earth. You're studying politics, Elanor, isn't it time you—_

 _I was studying politics. Not anymore._

 _Oh, so that gives you leave to abandon any sense of humanity? There are probably people starving here in the city!_

Elrond urged his horse to a gentle canter as they left the City behind them, and Fundanár followed suit at the lightest touch. Elanor was glad to leave the people of Gondor behind, with their poignant reminders about living conditions. They swiftly passed the crossroads, where the path turned due north-south whilst a branch stretched away to the north-east and, eventually, the ruins of Osgiliath. Elrond chose the northward path.

"Elladan and Elrohir informed me of some of your exploits," the Elf said, his voice carrying clearly despite the noise of the horses. "The endurance you demonstrated on the road southwards impressed them mightily, though I ought not to be surprised after the manner of your arrival in Middle-earth," he half-laughed.

"The ride south was unpleasant," Elanor admitted, ruefully. "And more still the tension! I'm sure they also told you I chose a reckless course and rode to war. Rest assured, however; I shall not repeat _that_ folly."

If Elrond sensed the hardness in her voice, he made no comment.

"And you have dwelt among the people of both Gondor and Rohan. What do you make of such lands as these, muin?"

Elanor paused to consider, fighting aside her reproachful inner cynic over the matter of social justice in Middle-earth.

"I am not entirely certain," she frowned, before her face erupted into a sunny smile moments later. "I knew I was no Elf, ada, yet I find I am not of the race of Men either!"

Elrond glanced across at her, amused. He rode with perfect fluidness, sitting his mount's canter as if the powerful animal were a rocking horse.

"To what do you refer?"

"Oh," Elanor shrugged. "I don't have the grace or the beauty or any number of things the Elves have, that much is certain. And still I don't find the people of Gondor or Rohan any easier to relate to, _really_. They're fairly straightforward, but in many ways they are more distant and polite than the Firstborn! At least amongst the Elves there is merriment and youth as I know it. I no longer find the race of Men peculiar, but I cannot help but feel I fall rather short even among my own kind. They are so proud and graceful—" She bit off, realising that she sounded as if she were begging for reassurance or attention. "It is not a bad feeling, though," she concluded hurriedly. "But it certainly made it far easier to decide to return North with you."

Elrond smiled and inclined his head, acceding to Elanor's amendment. For several miles they rode in silence. Or, rather, comparative silence, for the hoofbeats of the horses and the gentle sighs of the wind would not be quenched merely because Elanor and her foster-father did not speak.

As the City shrank behind them, they approached a glade of trees upon Pelennor, perhaps four miles from the crossroads outside Minas Tirith. There, Elrond angled away from the road and slowed as they neared the trees.

"What do you say to this spot, Elanor?"

The glade, one of several scattered within Rammas Echor, was fairly small. Even from several hundred metres distant, she could observe many figures in fine clothing standing therein. The grass about it was freshest green and rippled gaily. The trees themselves were small—not the aged behemoths of Imladris—but also rustled in greeting as they approached. Perhaps not the place she would have chosen for her engagement party to Tim, but considering that her fiancee was Glorfindel— _it's perfect._

Caught by an impulse, Elanor switched to Sindarin. "It is lovely."

* * *

"I have not yet been acquainted with your bride, Lord Glorfindel. Elrond has spoken of naught but her goodness!"

Glorfindel smiled into a pair of blue eyes placed almost level to his own. They were deep beyond any capacity to fathom, lit by stars unknown and aged in memory and wisdom. Lady Galadriel had something of a propensity to disconcert him, despite Glorfindel's hearty respect for the bearer of Nenya.

"It would gladden my heart for Elanor to meet thee."

"Elanor?" Galadriel smiled, as if tasting the word on her tongue.

With a knowing look and slightest arch of her brow, the Elf-woman glided away. Her every movement was fluid and practiced, lacking the lightning quickness of the younger Elves. In that moment, Glorfindel's own weighty years seemed of little import. He followed Lady Galadriel with his eyes as she drifted to rejoin her husband at the side of the glade of trees. It was not the first time she had departed a conversation in such a manner, amused by a great joke of her own and with the preternatural knack of disturbing one's comfortable thoughts.

Beneath the dappled shade of the canopy, Elrond's household had swiftly erected a series of feasting tables. These were spread with light cloths and laden with food. There was much laughter upon the air, for it appeared Glorfindel was not the only one feeling young that day, and many of the Elves who had gathered to celebrate the marriage of Arwen and Aragorn had congregated for the betrothal feast. There were but two mortals present; the King of Gondor, who stood in quiet observation to one side with his wife at his side, and Georgia, presently wedged between Elladan and Elrohir.

As a rule, such gatherings as these encompassed the houses of those to be wed. Elanor's race alone made the celebration rather unorthodox, but she had insisted that their betrothal be carried out according to the proper forms in honour of her foster-family. Her earnestness and insistence had brought Glorfindel no small measure of amusement. As Elrond was to stand as Elanor's family in this matter, and Glorfindel's kin had passed over the sea long ago, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel had graciously accepted his request to act in their stead. Glorfindel's fingers sought the small pouch attached to his tunic, running across the band of the ring contained therein.

A few moments later, someone called his name. He turned to observe two figures entering the glade. Elrond, his crown of raven hair encircled by a silver band, towered over the slim figure of a woman.

By unspoken agreement, the chatter hushed in an abrupt decrescendo and those present moved so as to leave Glorfindel standing in the centre of a circle of joyous faces. Elrond stepped forward to greet him with Elanor trailing demurely on his arm, whilst the Lord and Lady of Lórien glided forward to stand at his back. Glorfindel barely noticed.

Elanor's face was heightened with colour. Having found the eyes of her fiancee, she locked onto his gaze with a look that plainly said, _If I have to make a ceremonial entrance like this at our wedding, I will scold you so thoroughly your ears will ring for a week!_

Elrond moved at a stately pace, affording the groom-to-be ample time to study his future wife. Elanor wore a shade of midnight blue, a colour which Glorfindel had rarely observed her in yet which formed a pleasant contrast with her clear gold hair. The latter article was wound in a fashion previously unknown to the Noldorin Elf, gathered high upon her head and studded with tiny flashes of silver; flowers, he realised, which shimmered as brightly as the argent stars etched onto her gown. Her eyes were bright orbs within her smooth face, the cheeks pink under the weight of many stares. Whilst her nose was perhaps a little small and upturned, the thin face with it's pointed chin lacking in strength, and the eyebrows oft arched in childlike earnestness above wide eyes, she was very beautiful. The sparkle from beneath the black lashes held Glorfindel in rapture, whilst the animated expressions made one forget the other deficiencies, few though they were.

Before he could fully realise the fact, Elanor stood before him with Elrond at her back. His fingers darted anxiously to the pouch, and he withdrew the ring inside with damp hands. His fiancee smiled at him, refusing to relinquish her hold on his eyes even as Elrond announced their official betrothal in Sindarin.

Elanor's eyes twinkled with some unspoken joke as she proffered her left hand to him, and he slipped the silver ring upon the fourth finger. He, in turn, held out his own hand, and Elanor repeated the gesture. As this was done, a cheer erupted from within the circle of onlookers—it issued from suspiciously close to where Elladan and Elrohir stood with mischief upon their countenances—and others took it up. The people of Rivendell, who had come to know Elanor's frank ways and friendly manner, cheered mightily; those of Lórien were more subdued, and Glorfindel caught several cooler stares from within that contingent. Fortunately, Elrond beamed and bid they all eat and enjoy themselves; the onlookers dissipated with alacrity and very soon all were clustered about the feasting tables.

* * *

Elanor let out a pent-up breath as the formal part of the day concluded. It had been short, certainly, but she was not fool enough to believe that all of the Elves looked upon her as kindly as Elrond's household. To many, the Sindarin and Silvan Elves in particular, the race of Man were weak and fallen far from the mighty Edain of the First Age. There had been bloodshed, betrayal and folly in great measure; it was little wonder that they might look askance at a wedding between Glorfindel of Gondolin and a mere human.

 _Can I blame them for being so?_

 _Can you blame the dog which bites the taunting child?_

 _Is that really the best analogy to sum up the situation? Really?_

 _Come on, I can't provide these metaphorical examples at the drop of a hat if you're going to be picky._

Added to this was the unvoiced yet palpable assumption that she _must_ be something special for Glorfindel to have forsaken good sense and chosen a mortal to be his wife.

 _Because life isn't stressful enough without feeling as if half the Elven population is looking you up and down to figure out why you're marrying him!_

 _Irascible dogs do that, you know…_

 _You're talking about the Elves! Quit it, or someone will manage to read you're mind and you'll be hurled off the nearest cliff before you can say "Silmarillion"._

Still, these anxious thoughts—enough to make her blush—dissipated as Glorfindel grasped her hand. He winked roguishly down at her.

"Come along, Sunstar, we are wanted at the feast," he whispered, leading her onwards through the throng of people until they neared the head table. The bride and groom-to-be had been allotted seats in the centre, with their immediate family on either side. Elanor glanced nervously for Georgia, aware that her misdemeanours could heighten any distrust among the Elves. This fear was swiftly alleviated; Legolas had taken her under his wing and was amusing her with some form of tale. The latter had been invited by Elanor's special request, defying custom but leaving the merry Mirkwood Elf stumbling for words in thanks.

"Elanor?" Glorfindel inquired, low, drawing her back from a maze of thoughts.

"Yes," she smiled, "sorry. Coming."

Her fiancee led her to the seat upon the high table, pulling back the chair and aiding her to sit. As Glorfindel slid gracefully into his spot beside her, two figures approached to take the seats to Elanor's left.

 _Oh sweet mother of—_

 _Quick, forget the dog-and-stupid-child analogy!_

Lord Celeborn seated his lady as Glorfindel had done, and Elanor's stomach dropped to her delicate slippers at the knowledge she was about to share a feast with Galadriel. Elanor made a pretence of studying the table setting whilst the Lady of Lórien settled in her chair. She turned to Glorfindel, who was watching her in affectionate amusement. Finally, Elanor deemed it would be rude not to address the Elf-woman and allowed her eyes to creep shyly to the latter's countenance.

For some reason, Galadriel unnerved her far more than any of the other Elves. Glorfindel and Elrond were old, certainly, but there was a mischief and sense of youth in them yet. Galadriel surveyed her with eyes swimming in a dozen full lifetimes, but planted in the face of a thirty-year-old woman of exceptional beauty. Silver-gold hair floated in waves almost to her feet—such perfect hair Elanor could not have imagined—and blue eyes punctured the fabric of her being whilst crinkling in an enlightened smile. Just as she was scrambling for the courage to speak, Galadriel broke the silence:

"You are not of these lands, Elanor of…" she trailed off, with a look so knowing it sent shivers down Elanor's spine in defiance of the warm day.

"The Queen's Land," she finished, softly. "Nay—" switching to Sindarin "—I am not."

The use of the Elventongue caused Galadriel's mouth to tilt upwards. "You are thrifty in speech, Elanor of the Queen's Land, yet I perceive there is much you withhold." It was not a demand, nor a question; merely an observation, given in the Elf-woman's low, sonorous speech.

Elanor glanced downwards in something rather like shame, for it was abundantly evident that Galadriel's fabled mind-reading was no jest. The others about them had begun to eat, and she looked extremely chagrined as she passed Galadriel a dish of roast pumpkin.

 _May as well be up-front about it._

"You are correct, Lady Galadriel; I am from another world entirely, transported by magical means and without any knowledge of how to return. My sister was also brought to Middle-earth thus, albeit at a different time." The other woman was watching her with unblinking eyes of brightest blue. "My life is here, now, though few save Glorfindel and Elrond know of my true origins."

 _Thank goodness Glorfindel's been helping you brush up on your Sindarin. "Transported" isn't the kind of word that is generally in one's vocabulary._

Galadriel surveyed her a moment more, giving Elanor the feeling that she was probing her motives with shrewd hands. Finally, the Elf-woman quirked her eyebrow slightly, satisfied.

"You are right to speak plainly, for secrets and deceit are the work of Morgoth and yet employed by both Eldar and Edain. In this you reveal goodness, Elanor of Elrond's house."

 _Oh thank Eru. She doesn't hate me._

 _Clearly she didn't find the dog analogy…_

Elanor couldn't stop the broad smile which spread across her countenance like sunlight. "You have my thanks, Lady Galadriel; thy wisdom is great, and thy kindness unmatched. Much has been spoken of you in days both past and present, and great is my joy in meeting thee."

The Elf-woman's eyes twinkled at this eloquent speech—Elanor felt quite inspired as the honeyed Sindarin words slipped off her tongue—before inclining her head. She appeared amused as an elder is entertained by a fumbling, innocent child. This, the human woman felt, was an indication that their interview was at a conclusion. Galadriel turned ever so slightly so she was angled towards her husband, and Elanor was left to Glorfindel's cheery company. As he poured her a glass of wine— _"Just a small one, thank you dear," with a shared look of merriment_ —he leaned close and spoke in a whisper.

"I take your meeting with Lady Galadriel was pleasant?"

"She had my secret out within half a second," laughed Elanor, weakly. "Perhaps I should have a little more wine; my knees feel quite shaky, and I'm blushing like a girl."

"In which case I shan't give you more," her lover replied archly, "for you look very pretty when you blush."

* * *

 **This chapter was a _lot_ of fun to write! Elanor's had a little chat with Elrond, she and Glorfindel are engaged ( _officially_ )... I feel like we've come now to the end of the "planned" part of the story, in that the Fellowship is over, Aragorn and Arwen are wedded... Now, Elanor and Glorfindel find that the world is their oyster, and have to decide what to do with themselves over the coming time. Look to me not for wild plot devices or further adventures; I feel as if the pair of them have endured more than their fair share of excitement and tension!**

 **I will not say the story is completed yet, for there is a lot of fun to be had over the year which Elanor and Glorfindel must wait to be married, not to mention that Georgia's storyline is not yet resolved, and then there's the wedding itself! (Plus I simply refuse to abandon them after the ceremony. I just won't. Life goes on after marriage!)**

 **I hope you're all still with me; if you're not prepared to follow their post-war lives, I would recommend you stop reading the tale now. This is the conclusion of the true "adventure" per say, as _The Lord of the Rings_ is over and now it is the end of the Third Age and the beginning of the Fourth.**

 **Thankyou to all of those who have stuck the story out this far - you have my most fervent thanks for your reviews, PMs and even just the time you've spent reading my work. I super appreciate it and I'm very excited for what is to come. :D**

 **Finwe.**


	42. Home is where the heart is

**Home is where the heart is**

* * *

 **21st September, 3019 (Third Age)**

It was deceptively mild, even for autumn's fringe. Dusk was just beginning to fall, painting the sky in a beguiling mix of tangerine, gold and coral pink. To the east amassed a velvet twilight, with the faint points of early stars glittering upon it like tasteful jewels.

Elanor inhaled as deeply as she physically could, stretching her lungs to capacity in an effort to drink in the delicious scents. The aroma of pine trees hung heavy upon the air. It was a smell associated with both Imladris and Glorfindel, and thus doubly welcome as the company on horseback jogged quietly along the stony path. Said road wound between small grey boulders and green trees, which grew steadily more dense as they travelled and hid the magnificent sunset from Elanor's eyes.

They had been in the saddle for many hours and Fundanár was weary, yet Elanor found herself glancing about with renewed vigour as the path began to slope downwards and all traces of grass gave way to rockier terrain. Before she could fully comprehend the thudding of her heart, the path twisted sharply and the group upon horseback found themselves confronted with the vista below.

 _Home!_ sang her heart.

 _Rivendell._

By some unspoken agreement, the company paused in reverent stillness to absorb the magnificence of the Last Homely House. Glorfindel, to Elanor's left, met the sight with his usual transparency—a cheery grin and contented sigh; Gandalf was smoking his pipe with a large degree of equanimity, surrounded by three miniature figures on Hobbit-sized ponies all chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen. It took Elanor a moment longer to locate Elrond, for his black horse blended effectively into the growing gloom, and only the faint light upon his grey eyes belied his presence. His countenance was veiled, yet there was a hardness about his jaw which caused her a flicker of concern. This was brushed aside half a second later as Glorfindel flashed her a challenging smile and urged his horse downwards towards the house.

The full impact of the homecoming hit Elanor like a bucket of chilly water, prickling her skin and leaving her lips parted in a soft _o_. With a merry laugh, she nudged the valiant Fundanár to one final effort and he broke into a gentle lope down the path after his rider's betrothed. The track was broad and clear despite the fairly steep descent, and the Elvish gelding was exceptionally sure-footed. A few moments later she pulled alongside Glorfindel, who had slowed.

Words were but an encumbrance for those perfect minutes. Rivendell was a cluster of graceful columns and lofty roofs beside the rushing Bruinen, surrounded by trees of flame as it had been almost twelve months previously. The clear, sweeping water and dusk-gilded columns made the whole scene appear as a picture wrought from glass and translucent gems.

 _Home._

"Happy, meleth?" spoke Glorfindel softly, in the Elven-tongue.

Elanor merely laughed in response, perfect happiness personified. They rode some thirty metres ahead of the rest of the group, and with plaintive disregard for watching eyes, Glorfindel drew Asfaloth alongside Fundanár and reached for Elanor's hand.

"You are bold this evening, sir," she teased, though she did not loosen her returned grip on Glorfindel's strong fingers.

"I follow the whims of my heart," came the airy reply.

Elanor smiled down at Fundanár's glossy neck. It had been a fairly tedious journey north and west from Minas Tirith, for the company had sojourned in Rohan to honour Théoden's death as was custom, and the pace had been leisurely to the point of painfulness. The large and cheery group of travellers whom had set out had gradually withered away, for Arwen and Aragorn had turned back at Edoras and the Elves of Lórien had departed over the Misty Mountains. Gimli and Legolas had taken their leave and embarked on their own travels, rather vague about where they should go but adamant they would visit Rivendell before too long. The greater contingent of Elrond's household had already reached the Last Homely House, having continued homewards from the outset without pause.

For the first time in some months, Elanor also found herself without Georgia's presence. The younger Ravenscroft girl—having celebrated her eighteenth birthday whilst they were in Minas Tirith—had begged leave to remain in Edoras with Éowyn. The soon-to-be Steward's wife had welcomed Georgia with unfeigned warmth, and Elanor had ridden away with no small amount of relief mingled with concern. Her sister would join them in Rivendell after Éowyn's wedding early in the following year. Georgia had neglected to grow up despite becoming a legal adult, but Éowyn was a sensible companion and would keep the former out of any real mischief. Still, Elanor felt rather like she had palmed off responsibility for Georgia to another party and that made her look decidedly sheepish.

 _Until she makes some careless comment about your home-world in front of Thranduil or something, and you're trying to restrain her. Éowyn will be fine with her, quit worrying and enjoy the freedom. You'll have Georgia back safe and sound in plenty of time for your wedding to Glorfindel; that'll be soon enough._

Elanor found she could not argue with such blinding logic, and glanced up from Fundanár's mane. She and Glorfindel had almost reached the valley floor, and she could observe the lithe forms of the Elves moving about Imladris' open corridors. They were clad in clear colours and with their dark brown and black tresses in perfect, glossy arrangement. Soft melodies on flute and harp drifted through the evening air; as the company neared the gates of the house, those within it floated to greet them with as much fey grace as the performance of the musicians. Smiles lit up their faces and their voices were gilt with laughter.

Many called Glorfindel's name, both those who had seen them in Gondor and others whom had remained behind; Lindir met the golden-haired Elf with cheerful banter, and Elanor even spied several grizzled Ranger men turned out to inspect the new arrivals. Halbarad's comforting face was not amongst them—a pang struck Elanor's chest as she recalled the memorial service for the staunch leader—though she did spy Hithraur, the Ranger who had cooked each night upon the mad ride southwards. He spared her a gruff smile before Elanor found herself in the embrace of Indilwen, chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen in Sindarin.

The wave of delighted Elves dissipated slightly as Elrond, Gandalf and the hobbits joined the fray. Fundanár was led away, and Indilwen grasped Elanor's hand to escort her from the entrance with firmness which brooked no argument. Rather overwhelmed by the horde of people and the Elf-woman's insistence, Elanor glanced about anxiously for sight of Glorfindel. Her fiancee was conversing with Erestor, but his blue eyes met hers for a fleeting moment and he smiled in reassurance. Her pique at being dragged away from him swiftly dissipated as Indilwen traced the familiar path back to Elanor's old room.

Everything was as she had left it, and the memories so poignant that it quite overwhelmed her. Fortunately, Indilwen was busy moving about the chamber and did not observe the single tear Elanor could not quite repress.

"All is freshly cleaned, Lady Elanor," the Elf said, as she gestured towards the rest of the room. "I have fetched hot water for thy bath also, as I am sure you shall wish to refresh yourself before the feast. Do you have need of aid in dressing?"

"No thankyou, Indilwen," Elanor replied. "Though if you would come and fetch me in time for the feast—"

"Lord Elrond shall ring the bell."

"Ah. In that case, I will be quite right on my own. Thank you."

Indilwen smiled, the expression merely serving to heighten the beauty in her Elvish features, and departed. The room was suddenly still and mournful in her absence, but Elanor shook herself. The scent of the soaps was tantalising, and she stripped naked as she stumbled towards the screen which hid the bath. It was a profound relief to peel off the fine shirt, tunic and breeches, for they had become excessively grimy and the prospect of getting clean harried all her other bewildered thoughts away. Indilwen had filled the bath almost to the brim, and Elanor sank into its steamy embrace gladly as she discarded the last of her garments.

 _This… is… bliss._

* * *

Elanor started awake at the sound of her door clicking open. She was still fully submerged in the soapy water, which lapped at her collarbones and around her protruding knees.

 _Oh goodness, what time is it…_

From where she lay in the bath—which was now lukewarm—her view of both door and windows was obscured. Still, the room was dimmer than before, and she knew it must be perilously close to the time of the feast—hence the unannounced intruder.

"Hello?" she called hesitantly, easing herself upwards out of the water with prune-like fingers.

"Elanor?"

 _No no no… you can't be in here!_

"Glorfindel," she half-stammered, rendered almost mute in shock. "I'm in the bath."

This statement was met with a moment's silence, followed by a hearty laugh.

"My apologies, meleth," he chuckled, "I merely came to find you, as the bell for the feast will ring in about ten minutes time. I shall wait outside the door whilst you ready yourself."

Crouching awkwardly in the bath, Elanor heard the door open and then close again. Her face felt the colour of a ripe tomato as she waited to be sure her betrothed had departed the room.

 _That could have been mighty awkward… I dunno how the Elves feel about nudity, but… goodness…_

Shaking her head in embarrassment, Elanor stepped gingerly onto the floor so as to avoid a graceless, very naked fall. Heedless of the puddles she caused, she peered around the screen to make sure that Glorfindel had definitely left the room. Reassured he had been true to his word, she scarpered across the floor—littered with her discarded clothes—and to the wardrobe.

Despite being wet, nude and pink with humiliation, Elanor paused a moment to appreciate the beauty of the gowns contained therein. It had been many months since she had enjoyed the pleasure of the Elvish dresses. Reaching out, she brushed the drooping sleeves with her wrinkled fingers and smiled.

 _Might have to adopt some of the Gondorian fashion trends now I'm a permanent fixture here… these sleeves are nothing but an encumbrance when it comes to eating!_

She grinned, recalling several unladylike instances at the dinner table with Elrond and his twin sons. Elladan and Elrohir would not be at this feast, a fact which disappointed her; they had gone on to Lothlórien with their mother's kindred for a time.

Still, there was little she could do at that moment about either her foster-brothers or her sleeves, and any criticism of the exquisite Elf-made gowns was pure ingratitude. She indulged herself in several minutes spent choosing a dress and pulled it on hurriedly. Six minutes later, she tugged open the door to find Glorfindel leaning casually against the corridor wall.

He turned to look at her with a roguish smile, noting the damp hair, flushed cheeks and dress slightly askew.

"Dressed now, dearest?" he teased, blue eyes more like twinkling lights than anything else as he pushed away from the wall moved towards her.

This caused Elanor's colour to heighten once more, before Glorfindel wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her in for a soft kiss. He drew back slightly, lips breathtakingly close to hers as he reached to caress her jawline.

"Forgive me for the untimely intrusion," he whispered, a hint of playfulness in his tone which caused Elanor to fall back in laughter. Her fiancee still held her by the waist, but she glanced up at him with an attempt at reproach.

"You ought to have knocked," she laughed, losing all her self-control. "I'm not quite ready, though; but you're welcome to come in whilst I fix up my hair. Leave the door open," she added, turning in his embrace and gently disentangling his fingers so she could return to her dresser.

Glorfindel did as he was bid and sauntered into the chamber. Elanor glanced pointedly away as she saw him smirk in the direction of her dirty clothes, scattered across the floor. Sitting down as regally as she could manage at the dresser, Elanor pulled her hip-length hair away from her dress. The wet curls had already left marks upon the fabric, and she pursed her lips in mild annoyance.

"It's a lovely dress," remarked Glorfindel, who had moved to stare out of the window. Elanor admired the back of his form for a moment, before returning to her mirror. "On a lovelier lady," came his delayed addition, and in the reflection Elanor caught a glimpse of his cheeky smile over one shoulder.

"You're very distracting," she remarked wryly. "And I've had Georgia doing my hair for months now and I'm not sure what to do with it."

"Leave it out," her betrothed advised. "Or pull back certain strands softly. It looks lovely that way."

Deciding that his plan of action was as good as any, Elanor selected several small curl strands from the side of her head just above her ears and pulled them backwards gently, twisting them so they formed a soft roll. She secured it with a piece of cream silk, rather like a ribbon.

"Good?" she inquired, turning so he could see.

Glorfindel merely smiled. "Perfect."

Elanor rose from her seat and smoothed her dress. It was not particularly ostentatious, but it was a lovely sea-green, nipped in about her waist and had less cumbersome sleeves. Whilst it did clash a little with the sky-blue of Glorfindel's tunic, it was almost a perfect match for her eyes. She was rewarded for her choice by the expression of delight upon her fiancee's countenance.

"Shall we go?"

"With pleasure."

* * *

Glorfindel took a small mouthful of the wine, savouring it's taste and potency.

"Fine wine, is it not?" said Erestor, from his left, and Glorfindel smiled.

"Indeed; though you know very well that Lord Elrond only keeps very fine wines," he retorted, laughingly. Erestor merely raised his goblet with a cheery smirk and the two drank in unison.

The feasting table was long, noisy and boisterous; it was not a particularly momentous feast, merely the celebration of the Master's return home. The victory over Sauron had been celebrated with all fullness in Gondor, though still the folk of Rivendell found cause for unusual cheer. Not all of the Elves were present, and Gandalf, Elanor and the hobbits constituted the only guests outside of Elrond's household. To the golden-haired Elf's mind, however, the smaller gathering still managed to be as noisy as one twice it's size.

Glorfindel spared a glance to his right, where Elanor sat in happy conversation with Gandalf. The wizard appeared to be unusually forthcoming with his sunny-haired fiancee, abandoning his usual riddles and concealment in the face of hearty chatter. Grinning to himself, Glorfindel left the pair undisturbed, though eagerly anticipating Elanor's triumphant retelling of the amount she had managed to weasel out of the tight-lipped Istari after the feast was over. Rather than interrupting her success, he turned his attention elsewhere.

Both Glorfindel, his fiancee and Gandalf were seated upon the high table, at Lord Elrond's right. The Master himself was upon the far side of Erestor, and was presently eating his meal with an unusual degree of solemnity. Appearing to feel Glorfindel's eyes upon him, Elrond met his advisor's gaze and smiled slightly. The tilting corners of his mouth lit the Elf-lord's face with pleasant warmth, adding benevolence to the beauty of the Eldar and the strength of the Edain. His features moved in the same way as ever, yet Glorfindel observed a grimness about his eyes, little to be wondered at; not only were Elladan and Elrohir absent, but the Evenstar should never again grace the table of Imladris.

 _He feels it greatly._

 _Naturally; she was the light of his heart, and more so after Celebrían sailed Westwards!_

 _He is not without those who love him, though. Elanor looks upon him as a father! And he loves her also._

 _Do you really think a human woman, however remarkable, could replace his daughter? Elanor is young and fleeting, and she too will be lost to him ere long. You must understand; you too shall lose her eventually._

Glorfindel pressed his lips together in displeasure at the ringing words. He had attempted to discard such morbid thoughts in the ecstasy of victory, of love and of homecoming, of his impending marriage to Elanor and the delights of slow hours. Years blurred into millennia amongst the Eldar, yet the human lady with the green eyes had drawn him back to an existence of days. The season did not blur into one shifting, writhing mass which appeared to change beneath his notice, but each bud and blossom was remarked of and exclaimed over. Elanor's life might be fleeting, yet she drew from it a kind of patient enjoyment made only more beautiful because she knew no other way. She did not think of life as an age, but rather as a string of moments; Glorfindel was enchanted.

Still, it was but a blindfold which denied truth; that he should endure onwards for centuries in Middle-earth if so he chose, whilst Elanor might greet death ere sixty years had passed.

 _And now you've spoiled my dinner._

Glorfindel shook himself a little. The prospect of addressing this issue with Elanor was a distasteful one; she held no concerns for herself, being released unto death as was the blessing of mortal folk. Yet still the issue remained.

 _I'll have to speak to Elrond… though he ought to be given some time, his own grief—_

A small hand crept into Glorfindel's own, soft fingers tracing his palm and wrist with maddening slowness.

"Are you all right?"

He smiled, pouring forth as much cheer as he could manage and struggling for words. His mind was thoroughly occupied by her gentle and beguiling caress. "Quite, El. I am—merely concerned for—for your foster-father."

Elanor raised one eyebrow slightly, eyes flickering to Elrond, and then back to his face.

"I am worried for him as well, though I can't do anything to remedy the situation. I'm sure he'll be better once Elladan and Elrohir come back." She halted her fingers' tantalising dance across his, causing him to swallow hard and struggle for composure. "Still, do not think to escape so easily. There is something else weighing upon your mind, and I shall know what it is after we depart the table."

Glorfindel smiled in amazement, searching Elanor's smug expression. "You are far too wily for your own good, my lady."

"Me?" she scoffed, pretending to appear affronted whilst thumb and forefinger drew circles across his palm. "Never!"

Glorfindel wrapped his hand firmly about hers, trapping it beneath battle-trained fingers.

"What are you doing?" Elanor laughed, glancing from their hands to his face. "If you do not like it I can stop."

"I think the trouble is," he said, meeting her gaze seriously, "that I like it a little too much."

As little as he liked halting her affectionateness, Glorfindel was amply rewarded by the hale shade of pink his fiancee turned in that moment and struggled valiantly to suppress a broad grin. He needed to maintain his self-possession, though admittedly her thoughtless touch had scattered the worries of moments before, and for that he was grateful.

"Oh," she said softly, glancing down at her lap in the most demure fashion possible.

He squeezed her hand.

"My wits flee as my heart flutters, Elanor Ravenscroft," he smiled, willing her dark lashes to reveal the brilliant eyes beneath. He lowered his voice and said, "In less than a year's time, it shall matter not."

She went redder still and hurriedly withdrew her hand to grasp her goblet. She took a generous sip, looking everywhere but in Glorfindel's direction whilst her face cooled. Unable to resist, he leaned close to her ear.

"Not wine, I hope?"

* * *

 **25th December, 3019 (Third Age)**

Elanor pursed her lips and glanced at the table, mentally reviewing the multitude of tasks she had completed that morning in apprehension that she had forgotten one of vital import. She stood within Elrond's study—which still remained her favourite room in Rivendell—and before her was a heavy-laden table. The dishes upon it were generally unknown to the Eldar, and formed a large reason for Elanor's anxiety. There was a large leg of ham, cooked, cooled and standing ready for carving; several bright salads graced wooden bowls, and a peculiar creation which rather resembled a white cloud covered in fruit stood at one end.

 _Really Elanor, it's the perfect Christmas lunch._

Chewing her lip slightly, Elanor could not help but agree with her surprisingly generous narcissist as she surveyed her handiwork. Considering the limitations she had encountered, Rivendell's first Christmas would not be an utter failure.

Alongside the unorthodox dishes was a collection of mismatched decorations; mainly snowflakes cut from finest parchment—Indilwen had shown a great adeptness for making them—sprigs of holly, and silhouettes of several iconic Australian animals which also served as place settings. Unfortunately, Indilwen's nimble fingers did not extend as far as successfully cutting out kangaroos, platypuses and emus, and they left rather a lot to be desired. Elanor grinned as she glanced at a kangaroo which better resembled a meerkat on it's hind legs.

A gentle tap at the door roused her.

"Elanor?"

Turning, Elanor smoothed her clothes and hurried forward. "Oh, Ada, come in," she said, as Elrond's dark head appeared. "I am ready."

The Elf smiled and stepped inside. He caught sight of her clothes immediately, and paused a moment to survey them. She glanced down at herself, feeling rather self-conscious.

"Is it all right?" she inquired, a little tremulously.

Elrond chuckled. "It suits you, though forgive me if I prefer your regular style of dress."

"I think I do too, personally, after all this time," Elanor admitted, "but it was rather fun getting Indilwen to help me make this." She glanced up with a twinkle. "After all, it's not often you get to wear a snowflake-knitted jumper in Middle-earth."

"Nor such becoming trousers," added a third voice, and Glorfindel's lithe form seemed to materialise in the archway. "Do they look just like that in your home world, El?" he asked, moving towards her and planting a kiss upon her hair. Elrond surveyed them with a warm expression as the Elf slipped an arm about Elanor's waist.

"Not quite," she replied archly. "We call them _jeans_ , and whilst these are the right colour, they're too coarse. Denim—the fabric we make them from—is usually stiffer but still of quite a fine weave, not scratchy. And they normally have much more stitching, because we use machines to make them. The jumper turned out perfectly though," she laughed, rubbing the soft wool. Indilwen, in yet another stroke of brilliance, had helped Elanor create a green, cream and red jumper patterned with snowflakes. The fineness of the wool and the Elf's adeptness with her hands had produced the nicest knitted jumper Elanor had owned, even better than a store-bought one from Myer. She was proud of this creation.

"Perhaps we shall all wear them next December," Glorfindel suggested, with a failed attempt at solemnity. Elanor swatted him playfully upon the arm.

"If you tease me about it, I shall make you one myself! At home we never got to wear jumpers like this on Christmas Day, because it was far too hot. Places like America and Canada and England do, because their Christmas falls in wintertime."

"Like here?"

"Yes. So I'm afraid most of my family's traditions are utterly lost, as they encompass playing cricket, swimming, and a water balloon fight," Elanor sighed, a little ruefully. "Still, we can always try that come summertime!"

"I eagerly anticipate discovering _cricket_ ," Glorfindel enthused with the carefree manner of one who knows nothing about it.

Elrond merely laughed. "You have found a champion for your cause, nethig! Who else is fated to join us for this delightful feast?"

"Only Bilbo," said Elanor, smiling blithely despite a fair degree of disappointment that so many were absent. Georgia would not rejoin them for some months, Gandalf had departed on some errand, the twins were still abroad and the hobbits had gone to save the Shire.

 _It would have been lovely if Gimli and Legolas were here… but I suppose that will have to wait until the wedding…_

"A quiet celebration then," Elrond replied, tactful as ever. Elanor caught a flicker of understanding in his gaze as he smiled— _he knows as well as you do what it is to miss someone, though he has no hope of ever seeing them again. Whereas you, in your time, might visit Gondor and see the King and Queen, and Boromir and Faramir, and the Shirelings…_

"Yes, but I daresay it will be noisy nevertheless," chirped Glorfindel, moving towards the table with keen eyes. "This looks most intriguing!"

"Well you'll have to be intrigued a little longer; I'm determined to wait for Bilbo. So hands off!" came the laughing reprimand, as one of the Elf's nimble fingers was snatched back from the peculiar cloud-like dessert.

Elrond reached out to brush Elanor's arm with his hand. "Do you mind if I clear off my desk whilst we await Master Baggins' arrival?"

"Not at all, Ada," she smiled. Elrond inclined his head and moved across the study to his desk, which was, admittedly, littered with parchments and scrolls. Elanor watched him with a careful eye, intrigued by the nimble Elvish movements but also eager to peruse her foster-father undisturbed. The previous months Elrond had not seemed entirely himself, and whilst the reason was certainly understandable, she longed to see him restored to his former quiet good humour. December had wrought much improvement compared to August, but the lines about Elrond's eyes had not yet disappeared. As much as Elanor wanted them to, there was the niggling doubt that the sorrow which touched him—and which had touched his entire life—would never quite disappear until he sailed across to Valinor.

 _Why do you think he decides to go over the sea, Elanor? His wife's there, his sons will most probably go with him… can you blame him?_

 _No—but I'd still rather these last months with him were happier._

That was an unpleasant reminder; a quick referral to an appendix in her long-ago-stashed copy of _The Silmarillion_ had shown her that he, Bilbo, Frodo and the other Elves would take the ship to Valinor in less than two years. The prospect of losing her remaining adopted family was one she did not wish to contemplate, especially as it also heralded the difficult issue of how she and Glorfindel were to manage.

 _Best not to think about it now._

"Elanor, what on Arda is this creature?" exclaimed Glorfindel, with a furrowed brow, lifting a long-legged emu from the table and holding it up in amazement.

Glad for the distraction, she moved over to his side with a grin. "We call it an emu; it's a very large bird, with long hair on it's body and slim legs. They run very fast."

"It looks—unlike anything I've ever seen," he replied slowly, grasping for words.

"Australia is known for it's odd animals," Elanor assured him, with a chuckle. "Most other creatures are the same as in Middle-earth; our cows and horses and pigs and sheep, though the animals belonging to the Elves far surpass ours. The horses here—"

She broke off as someone tapped on the door, shot Glorfindel an apologetic look and hurried to answer it.

Standing in the doorway was Bilbo, one hand extended and his weathered, wrinkled face broken in a beatific smile.

"Lady Elanor," he half-croaked, eyes twinkling despite his frailty. "Thank you most kindly for this invitation!"

Flooded with affection for the grandfatherly figure, Elanor smiled and reached for his arm. "You're most welcome, Bilbo! Come in, we're all ready to begin."

Elrond, seeing the final guest had arrived, tossed aside the last of his parchments and strode across to join them. He greeted Bilbo with warm words and guided the hobbit to the table. Elanor was seated by her fiancee, who was still gleefully eyeing the dessert dish.

"Will you carve the ham for us, ada?" she asked, holding out the knife to Elrond. "And Glorfindel, you might pass the salads to Bilbo."

"These are most interesting salads, El," the Elf mused, passing them to the grateful Bilbo, who dished a generous hobbit-like portion to his plate. "And I'm itching to know what that other object down there is!"

"That," laughed Elanor, "is a pavlova."

"A pav-what-a?"

"Do not get ahead of yourself, my Lord Glorfindel," came Elrond's remark, with a conspiratorial wink at Elanor. "Or your betrothed shan't allow you to have any pavlova."

Glorfindel's mouth curved in a quasi-shocked _o_. "She would never deny me such a dessert!"

Elanor merely laughed and took his hand with an arch expression. "Wouldn't I?" Then, with a second chuckle, she leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Merry Christmas, love."

* * *

 **I'm sorry for my hugely long hiatus team! Here's your first post-book chapter, I won't call them epilogues because I honestly don't know how long they're going to continue. xD There are still several very important matters to sort out, as I've kind of foreshadowed in this chapter. I'm not going to rush up to Elanor and Glorfindel's wedding because I feel like there are several things to happen before then.**

 **Oh, and we've also got to sort out what we do with Georgia. That'll be fun. *dripping with sarcasm* ;)**

 **Have so loved reading all your kind reviews, let us know what you think of the chapter and the constant Elanor-Glorfindel banter! ^_^**

 **\- Finwe.**


	43. Bleeding

**Bleeding**

* * *

 **11th April, 3020 (Third Age)**

Elanor pulled the soft, fleecy shawl about her with lips pursed in mild irritation. Rivendell, ordinarily mild and temperate, was beset by chill this particular spring morning. Striding along a dew-studded path, she wished she had chosen a warmer shawl in retrospect and angled towards her favourite spot within the gardens—a bench seat which wrapped around a mighty oak tree. That particular leafy giant had observed many pensive and introspective moments in the life of the Australian woman in the past eighteen months, beginning shortly after her arrival in Arda. She had grown very attached to it's comforting trunk and thick canopy.

Despite having spent such an extended length of time in Middle-earth, Elanor could not help but think of her home-climate with fondness. Even considering that summertime fell over Christmas in Australia, it would still be warm enough to swim at the beach in April, notwithstanding the fact it would be almost mid-autumn. The fleetingness of summer in the north was one gripe she felt she would never be quite reconciled too—even if the north meant Imladris and Glorfindel.

Still, Arda had it's charms; even despite her pique at the preternatural coolness of the day, Elanor could not gaze upon the fresh spring buds without that visceral delight which new life affords. Primrose and dogwood burst forth with all sweetness, whilst daisies scattered across the lawns in a form of delicate rebellion. The flowers were so minute compared to the fleshy variety Elanor had been accustomed to in her mother's garden that she could not help pausing en route to her bench seat and picking several. As she seated herself carefully, with due regard for preserving her skirts, she tucked these exquisite daisies into her long braid.

 _Still grumpy that it's cold?_ prodded her unshakable narcissist, with a sly grin.

 _No—though I'd give anything for a scorching day at Byron, swimming at Wategos…_

The second voice—which had become irrevocably settled within her head over the last year and a half—merely laughed whilst Elanor settled herself comfortably upon the bench seat. Gazing upon the pristine gardens, it was difficult to remain cross for long, even as one born and bred in the sub-tropics.

Truth be told, her annoyance at the unobliging weather was merely a vent for other frustrations; frustrations Elanor had quelled for want of time and opportunity to be alone in previous weeks. There was a certain degree of trepidation as she curled up on the bench and allowed her thoughts to slacken to a slow and methodical contemplation. She fingered one of the tassels on her shawl.

 _…it's been a long time, hasn't it?_

A year.

More than a full year since Sauron had been overthrown, Georgia had arrived, and Elanor had discovered Glorfindel's love for her; the desolate memories of her arrival in Middle-earth seemed indiscernibly distant. She and Boromir had known each other for some time now, and she had acquaintances which stretched from Gondor through Rohan, northwards to Mirkwood and Imladris and even the Shire.

 _Can it really have been only eighteen months since I first got here?_

 _Eighteen months is a pretty damn long time…_

 _Yeah, but still; I can't even remember—home is very far away._

 _You are at home, Elanor._

 _…yeah._

She glanced once more at the daisies, the careless thought of her mother's garden producing a flood of nostalgia. Kate Ravenscroft's garden had always been a haphazard affair, but Elanor had loved it. A year and a half had forced her memories of Australia so far distant that they no longer seemed like home.

 _And then,_ she thought tartly, _the silly weather had to go and be cold and make me think of my old life! Ah goodness, why does it have to hurt even after all this time?_

 _Does it hurt, though? Really? Does it hurt more than your memories of primary school, or of high school even though that's over? Elanor, you just turned twenty-three! Do you mourn everything that occurred in your life and is now finished? Besides_ , the motherly tirade continued, _you barely think of Tim anymore, and you'd be silly to dwell on that forever. The pain of memory fades and becomes sweet and soft to behold._

She paused and chewed her lips, sufficiently chagrined by the scolding. _All I'm saying is it's pretty weird thinking I've been here for so long, and it's my proper home! I've got roots here now, I'm properly settled and—it's a normal life. The whole crazy war is over, and I'm getting to live—live like I would have at home. With love and family and interesting things to learn. It's not a storybook anymore; it's life as I want it to be._

 _Except you'll never be quite satisfied, not knowing why on earth you ended up here._

 _Isn't it enough to think of it as fate? Like, God plopped me here because he knew Glorfindel was a better match for me than even Tim?_

 _…how does that explain Georgia?_

Elanor had to grin at that. Her irascible sister was certainly a quandary, though she found it easy to love her whilst she was occupied in the south with Éowyn. Still, the younger Ravenscroft was expected to return at any time. The 26th of June was fast approaching, and Georgia had sworn to arrive in good time to help with wedding preparations.

 _Not that there will be many! It'll just be the foster-family and close friends—nothing major._

She suppressed a slight shiver of anticipation. It was amazing to think in less than three months, she would be a married woman, settled in Middle-earth, with an _Elf_ , no less. Thus Elanor stumbled upon her second main predicament; her own mortality.

By nature, she was predisposed to overthinking everything. A year in Middle-earth had afforded her the ability to turn off that unfortunate characteristic at will—a mixed blessing and curse. She had managed to block the recurring worries about the compatibility of human and Elfkind from her mind for a full rotation of the seasons. In one sense that had afforded her great relief; in another, she was no closer to a resolution. Glorfindel had laughed off every mention of the subject with swiftness which made Elanor quite certain he was worried. She had been reluctant to broach the issue with Elrond; her foster-father no longer seemed to brood incessantly, but he was far more subdued than before. The time for his departure neared, and Elanor was resigned to the fact only his reuniting with Celebrían would bring back the old Master of Rivendell.

 _Will I ever see that, though?_

It was hardly an easy question to ask: _"_ Hey Elrond, could I possibly get a free ticket to Valinor? Or is there any way the Valar will give me longer years seeing as I got unwilling placed here? Any chance I won't have to die and leave my Elven husband alone?"

 _Yeah, not exactly the kind of request you want to pose to your half-Elven foster-father who's son-in-law wasn't allowed immortality, thus forcing him to lose his otherwise-Elven daughter. What would make you more special than_ ** _Aragorn_** _?_

She almost laughed at the ludicrous nature of the idea. She could never ask Elrond such a potentially hurtful question, and Glorfindel would have to face the notion eventually.

 _Perhaps it'll be good when Georgia gets here; at least I can talk to her honestly about the whole thing! There isn't anyone else in Rivendell at the moment who knows where we come from._

 _Oh, I can't wait for Elladan and Elrohir to come back…_

 _And you can expect Legolas and Gimli pretty soon too! That'll liven things up._

Elanor smiled softly, thinking on the cheery days which lay ahead regardless of the vital future decisions. They had no way of knowing precisely when all of her friends should arrive, but it had to occur before late-June. And, if she had her way, she and Glorfindel would journey to the Shire after the wedding to check in on the progress of the hobbits in freeing the land of Saruman's filth. Elrond had received rumours of the incident, and of their success. Elanor was determined she would not visit Bag End until she were quite sure she would experience the Shire in all it's New Zealand-esque glory. She did not want to have her view coloured by the havoc Saruman had wrought. Thus their visit was planned for the following fall.

 _And,_ she sighed, _in the meanwhile, all I can do is leave the issue where it stands. Glorfindel will have to face facts eventually—how can he not, when I start looking like an old maid?_

 _Yeah, that's not exactly a nice prospect. Elanor the cougar!_

 _I'm the cougar, when I'm marrying an Elf who is thousands of years old?_

Her snarky self pulled a sour expression.

 _Better pray that Eru sorts this one out!_

She laughed aloud then, _Trust me, if he can get me through that battle outside Minas Tirith—I think he can figure out what to do with me for the rest of my lifetime._

Breathing deep, she looked out beyond the eaves of the oak tree. Amazingly, she found that even such an intangible decision left her feeling rather peaceful. So much had been beyond her grasp since her life-shattering arrival in Middle-earth that she'd abandoned any hope of control. If she could make it through the horrors of the War of the Ring and she had Glorfindel, she was sure anything else could be negotiated—even if her fiancee seemed adamant that they would never be anything but light-hearted.

A tingly gust of wind caused goosebumps to erupt on her arms, despite the covering of a dress and her shawl. Admittedly, this dress was constructed as a kind of Elvish-Gondorian hybrid, and very much to Elanor's liking. The sleeves were fitted, the waist about her narrowest part, and it had a simple a-line skirt. It was pale yellow, the colour of primroses—her spring dress, and made of light fabric. Most definitely too light for the present climate, but she had been determined to at least _pretend_ it was warm.

The time seemed to pass with uncanny swiftness under the tree; realising it was drawing near to lunch, Elanor stood. Elrond and Glorfindel were both busy, so she had requested to dine alone in her rooms. Rivendell did not require a great amount of administration, but what little was necessary would be undertaken that morning. Generally, the Elves managed the household with a great deal of independence and care; it was not necessary for the Master to dictate detail as Arwen and the housekeeper had fallen to doing in Minas Tirith. Those who prepared meals used their discretion and ingenuity, whilst all were obliging and willing to lend a hand. And, not surprisingly, the Elven house managed to run with infinitely less disruption than the fortress of men.

* * *

The air had warmed fractionally by Elanor returned outside after lunch. She had reluctantly abandoned the yellow gown for leggings, a soft shirt and a sleeveless over-tunic which came to her mid-thigh. Her boots laced halfway up her calves and were soft and supple. She felt decidedly less pretty, but the warmth and comfort almost made up for it.

She strode briskly along the gravelled path for a time, stretching her legs and revelling in the satisfying _crunch_ her shoes made on the ground. Feeling restless, she angled towards the grassy field upon which the inhabitants of the Last Homely House might practice their weapon-craft.

The stretch of grass where the archery targets were set up was as unblemished as the emerald surface of a pool table. An Elf Elanor did not recognise was lazily sending arrows into the perfect centre of the targets.

A small stone building to one side of the field held a variety of weapons for general use. Elanor did not own a bow or knives, and ambled towards this structure. The archway was softened by climbing ivy, and she smiled slightly as she paused in the threshold.

Even the most ordinary weapons created by the Elves were exquisite. The room held nothing to a real armoury, but half a dozen swords of varied lengths and shapes were held in displays upon one wall, a rack of spears on another, bows rested unstrung in one corner and there were many barrels full of arrows. Said arrows were beautifully fletched in different colours, and Elanor hesitated a moment in admiring the beautiful workmanship. Glancing upwards, her eye fell upon the row of swords.

Five of the six were far too large for her; one was scarcely longer than the elegant blade Elrond had given her, the one she had bitterly christened _Naeth_. It lay in the bottom of her wardrobe, untouched since her return from the south.

Cautiously, Elanor moved across the stone floor to where the smallest sword lay. She picked it up with a slightly furrowed brow, and unsheathed it with the awkwardness of one who has not performed an action in some time. The blade glittered before her eyes, cold steel with the silvery lightness in it's temper she had come to associate with Elven weapons. It's razor edges flashed cruelly, and with an anguished look Elanor shoved it awkwardly into the scabbard. Images of mortal wounds, of dying men and screams of wordless pain . Fumbling, she did not realise she had cut her hand until the weapon had been placed roughly back in it's place. Covering the slice and swift-pooling blood with her other hand, she hurried out of the small weapon's room with a hunted expression.

The Elf outside was still shooting with casual precision, and did not turn his head as the woman with her bright golden hair half-stumbled away from the practice field. Once she was some thirty metres away, she paused. Blood seeped out from between her fingers and she gingerly pulled her other hand away to inspect it.

She had managed to cut across part of her left palm, between her thumb and forefinger but very close to the joint of the latter and partway round the side of her hand. It was bleeding a reasonable amount, but after an experimental wiggling of her hand Elanor decided it was fairly trivial. There was no numbness either, so evidently she had not severed a nerve.

 _Which is pretty amazing luck, really, considering how small your hand is…_

There was little pain from the injury as yet; obviously the shock of cutting herself had not registered with her body. Angry with herself for being careless with a razor-sharp length of metal, Elanor gripped her left hand to stop further blood floor and strode quickly back towards the main house.

Leaping awkwardly over a flowerbed to save herself time going the long way round, she was startled when her foot caught on a gnarled vine. Her stomach plummeted as she catapulted forward and fell heavily on her right shoulder, both hands occupied with the sword cut and unable to break her fall. Her side met the ground with a solid _thunk_ , driving all the air out of her. Gasping for breath and alarmed by the abruptness of the incident, she sat up hurriedly and immediately regretted it. Oxygen rushed back into her lungs but her shoulder throbbed indignantly at the sudden exertion, and she could feel blood seeping through her clothes from the gravel in various places.

Sitting on the edge of a garden with a sliced hand and numerous grazes, Elanor realised she was perhaps the most pitiful and ungainly creature on Arda at that moment. Her entire right side was beginning to ache and sting simultaneously, whilst the thudding of her heart had caused her hand injury to bleed faster. With the air of a woebegone child, several tears seeped out of her eyes onto her cheeks.

This only served to alert her that she had grazed the side of her face as the salty tears stung furiously.

 _Kind of like one of those comedies where the heroine has an inordinate string of bad luck, falls over, and looks like a giant idiot because—_

The few tears turned into frustrated sobs. Her tumble had merely added insult to injury, and had she not felt quite so battered she might have flopped backwards onto the ground and had a good howl. As it was, she sat crouched over and cried until her cuts and abrasions grew too prominent to ignore. Standing was a laborious task, but eventually she was on her feet, feeling hard done by and excessively clumsy.

Thanks to her shortcut—slight misfire though it was—Elanor was now close to the house. The path angled directly to a flight of stairs and thence to a columned walkway which led directly to the guest wing in which her room was situated. Eager to get out of her now-bloodstained attire, Elanor attempted to quicken her pace. Just as she reached the foot of the stairs, she glanced up. Glorfindel was just about to hurry down towards her.

"Elanor," he smiled. That expression faded swiftly as he caught sight of her grazed face. "Elanor! Are you all right?"

In one fell movement he leaped from the top of the flight of stairs to the bottom, landing catlike and rising to grasp her shoulders before she could say "Gondolin". She had not seen such a look of horror upon his face since he had berated her for riding to battle in the Houses of Healing. One hand clamped over the graze which extended from shoulder to elbow, and Elanor cried out and pulled away. The touch left Glorfindel with a stripe of blood across his palm. His fair face grew whiter.

"Elanor, please, are you—"

"I'm fine," she managed, through gritted teeth. She met his concerned look with the animosity of a wounded bear, her arm smarting sharply from where he had unknowingly grabbed her. "Geez, you didn't have to touch my arm though! I've got grazes everywhere, be careful won't you?"

The caustic retort only served to deepen the lines of worry upon his face. "What happened, El?"

She shook her head impatiently. "I cut my hand on a sword—" Glorfindel moved as if to touch her again and then jerked his arm back "—and then tripped badly and ended up sliding along the gravel path on my face for a bit, so I've got quite a few grazes, in case you didn't notice." As if to emphasise this, the blood seeping from the scrape on her face formed a rivulet which dribbled past the corner of her mouth. The taste was acrid.

Glorfindel merely stared at her for a moment, taking in the tattered right-hand side of her attire, the various bloodied parts of her anatomy, the determined hold upon her injured hand and the fierceness inspired by pain which kindled in his fiancee's eyes. He held out his own hands somewhat helplessly, as if he did not know how to react to the animal defensiveness she was displaying. Too piqued to apologise for her own brusqueness, Elanor tossed her braid over her shoulder with a practiced movement and challenged him with her gaze.

Having taken in her appearance from top to bottom, Glorfindel seemed to realise she was not mortally wounded and gave a short nod.

"Where did you fall, if I might inquire?" he asked quietly.

Standing as regally as she could manage in the circumstances, Elanor raised one eyebrow. "I tripped on something in the garden, I don't know. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention. I was just trying to—" She broke off indignantly, for in place of sick concern, Glorfindel's eyes were now beginning to kindle with amusement. " _What_?"

He waved one hand, lips pressed firmly together to suppress mirth.

"Are you _laughing_ at me hurting myself?" she asked, dangerously low.

Glorfindel shook his head emphatically, an action which was swiftly negated by the smile which crept onto his face. "El, you tripped over a _bush_. I was thinking you'd fallen a dozen feet down some stairs, or off a roof, or a small _cliff_ —"

Running, Elanor discovered then, was indeed possible. With a poisonous look, she fled up the stairs two at a time, hot tears beginning to form in her eyes.

 _How dare he! How dare he! How could be so mean?!_

"El!" came the contrite cry, "Elanor, forgive me! I merely meant it in jest. Please, Elanor, do not be—" Glorfindel's long legs and Elvish agility soon overhauled her, and he reached to stop her with a gentle hand—on her right arm.

Excessively irritated, riled and already throbbing, even the fondest touch on her gravel-rash was enough to cause her to explode.

" _Ow_ ," she screamed, snatching it away with more force than was strictly necessary as she whirled to face him. As he stood several steps below, she was afforded opportunity to stare directly into his face. "Don't _touch_ me," she half-sobbed, caught between anguish and fury. "That hurt!"

Glorfindel's face crinkled in surprise. "Elanor!" he gasped.

"No," she said, stumbling back half a step. "That was horrible, Glorfindel."

"El, I didn't mean—"

"Don't tell me that!"

"What else must I say? I did not mean it as you appear to have interpreted it," cried he, helplessly. "I did not desire to hurt you—I have never desired it, nor shall I."

"Well," sniffed Elanor, quelling her hurt, "you did. We're not all Elves, perfectly graceful and agile and faultless and with the pain tolerance of a cave troll—" this was punctuated with rolled eyes and an abundance of sarcasm "—unfortunately! Some of us are mortals. We fall over, we're a bit clumsy, we bleed, and we don't live forever. Or did you decide to conveniently forget that you're marrying one? That you're going to exist indefinitely and I'm going to die?"

Caught in the heat of the moment, Elanor was brought abruptly down to earth by her fiancee's stony silence. It was louder than a cacophony of cymbals.

He looked at her. He simply looked. And as he did so, it was if an opaque veil descended and hid from her the multitude of thoughts darting through his clever mind.

"How could I forget? Tend your wounds," he said coolly, turning and continuing away from the house into the gardens without an instant's hesitation.

As his proud form retreated, Elanor's tears returned with a relish. Feeling as if her pleasant morning was crumbling about her ears, she turned and fled inside.

* * *

An hour later, Elrond Peredhel's foster-daughter was sitting calmly upon her bed. Indilwen, mistaking her tears as stemming from pain, had fussed over her mightily. The grazes had been washed and daubed with a kind of herbal antiseptic cream, and the cut on her hand lightly bandaged. Altogether her injuries looked trivial after she had bathed and dressed herself for the third time that day. The grazes were rather large but not deep, and the cream had soothed the stinging.

Her physical concerns attended to, Elanor turned her thoughts to the looming issue of her fiancee. Hot anger gave way to cold, sheepish guilt. In her riled state she had been unforgivably acid and cruel.

 _This always seems to happen_ , she moaned inwardly. _You're grumpy, someone is concerned for you, and you snap at them mercilessly! You're always sorry ten seconds later, but it's too late now. It's like a flash temper, one big spark and it all disappears and you're contrite! And admit it—you would've looked hilarious when you fell over._

That was true enough. It was also true that there was little worse she could have said to her betrothed—Glorfindel was abundantly aware that she was mortal, and to drag the fact before him as an accusation was, to say the least, spiteful and feckless. He loved her. To throw her mortality at him as if he were not aware of it was an insult to his intelligence— _and, most probably, was like salt in a wound. You were only thinking this morning that he probably hadn't said anything because he was very worried about your future together and losing you! For goodness' sake Elanor, what made you say that?!_

She decided it was safer not to answer that question.

 _I'll just have to apologise; after all, he did grab my arm—that hurt a lot—and he did laugh at me. I'm sure it'll be fine._

Taking a deep breath, Elanor nodded to herself. Her natural instinct was to rush straight after her fiancee and resolve the issue immediately. However, past experience had taught her that where Glorfindel was concerned, it was better to wait. He preferred to contemplate in silence and alone, and—seeing as she was undeniably in the wrong this time—she would restrain herself and leave him be.

 _At least until dinnertime._

Dinner being served around seven in the evening, this left Elanor some two hours to occupy. Her stomach was somewhat queasy with all of the tumult, and she clambered off the bed in search of a distraction to while away the hours.

It felt rather like trying to fall asleep when the mind is in a state of aggressive wakefulness. Minutes dragged by, and queasiness beleaguered her stomach. She read fitfully and with little success for half an hour, then rose and paced her bedchamber. This was succeeded by fifteen minutes of scrutinising her facial injuries intently and checking for blackheads and pimples. More reading. More pacing. Ten minutes staring blankly out a window.

Then finally—the dinner gong.

Elanor scrambled off her bed with alacrity and brushed her skirts free of rumples and threads. She glanced expectantly at her open door, then paused— _he normally comes to escort me…_

She chewed her lip. Glorfindel had, without fail, appeared at her door promptly after the dinner gong every night to lead her to Elrond's dining hall on his arm. Yet, in lieu of their fight, should she go down without him?

After a minute's agonised deliberation, she clenched her fists and moved to the door.

 _Of course he's not coming, you guys had a fight—_ rounding the corner and taking three steps along the corridor, she was startled to catch sight of her fiancee coming toward her.

Like a sudden flood, Elanor was acutely aware of how handsome Glorfindel was. This particular night he wore a tunic of softest white silk, embroidered in silver and tiny beads at the neck and sleeves. His leggings were a muted grey and well-fitted beneath knee-length boots, and his hair seemed to glinted like white gold. Apart from the sharp blueness of his eyes, he might have been wrought of nothing more than shadow and light. The well-formed chin was lifted slightly, lending him an air of utmost kingliness and causing the candlelight to fall on his cheekbones to best effect. About him was cast an aura of the fey, of magic and other-worldliness. The breath caught in her chest and she gazed at him with the wide eyes and parted lips of one utterly smitten.

Yet there was something missing—the smile, the twinkle about the eye, the slightest quirk of the lip. And Elanor's spirits fell along with her gaze, coming to rest on the stone floor.

"Are you ready for dinner?" The neutral tone shattered her composure like glass as tears rushed to fill her eyes. Through the prisms of salty water, Elanor caught sight of a proffered arm and reached numbly to grab it. It was stiff. Without a word Glorfindel proceeded forward, and she kept her head lowered so he would not see her tears.

The absence of ordinary caresses were suddenly thrown in Elanor's face, icy cold and unpleasant. Rather than tucking her hand possessively between his arm and side and securing it with his other hand, he allowed her to rest her fingers at his elbow and held it aloof and distant from his body. The pace he set was brisk, as if he desired nothing more than to arrive in the dining hall so he would not have to prolong the physical contact.

All Elanor's preprepared speeches about their conflict fled her mind like wraiths in the night. She found herself tongue-tied and at the brink of tears. The walk to the feasting hall felt impossibly long.

 _Oh goodness… well, we may as well cancel the wedding now…_

 _He has clearly not forgiven you…_

The table and meal was something of a blur. Glorfindel was dutiful, attentive and polite—frighteningly so. Elanor would have been profoundly relieved were he to turn to her and make some kind of playful jest about the state of her face, and whether humans ordinarily looked like that. She possessed vague memories of civil conversation with other Elves as to her injuries, and painfully poignant images of Glorfindel passing her a plate of roast vegetables, coupled with a gaze of such cold indifference that she nearly lost her little appetite completely.

At length it was over. Having caught several questioning glances from her foster-father, she desired nothing more than to escape. Glorfindel evidently despise ed her, yet was gentleman enough to perform his duty with clinical detachment admirable in a surgeon, and less than delightful in a lover. He was still a noticing being, and turned to her.

"Do you wish to retire?"

Elanor nodded mutely. Glorfindel rose with his cat-like grace, spoke a few quiet words to Lord Elrond, and then offered her his arm once more. She took it and they began the mechanical journey back to her rooms.

Her powers of speech did not appear ready to return to her. Thus, Elanor confined herself to biting back tears and sighs and staring at the shadows they cast upon the ground.

How easily things had gone from wonderful to utterly miserable! She had known that Glorfindel was having difficulties with her mortality, yet this—this! They had stooped to bickering, and neither of them had the courage or inclination to remedy the situation!

 _And it was such a petty quarrel too… if I'd just asked him at a better time what he was thinking about managing our different kinds and their lifespans, it probably would've been fine… but then you had to go into the armoury and…_

With thoughts of the armoury came a resurgence of the horrors which had surfaced earlier that day. Sickening memories—war, death, blood, screams—caused her to shudder involuntarily.

 _Is this PTSD?_

Had Elanor been looking upwards, she would have seen her fiancee glance down upon her head at that moment. The small hand on Glorfindel's arm quivered slightly, and her shoulders shook. After a moment she righted herself, and the briefest flicker of agony on his countenance had passed.

 _It's like when he came and yelled at me about riding into battle again…_

 _Yeah, except this time he hasn't been keen to hug it out…_

A moment later they arrived at Elanor's chamber and she withdrew her hand woodenly and moved towards the door, feeling more like an automaton than a human. Stirred by a sudden impulse, she turned at the threshold to look back.

Glorfindel stood there, watching—just watching.

Elanor willed herself to meet his eyes.

They stared back, unfathomably blue.

She pressed her lips together, striving desperately not to cry and forming a rather moving picture with her thin, pale face and wide green eyes pools of moisture. When her betrothed gave no indication of emotion, she felt a prick of frustration.

 _Doesn't he care at all? It's not like it was all my fault!_

Her backbone returning with annoyance, she threw her hands out in an exaggerated shrug.

"What do you want me to say, Glorfindel? I'm sorry! I'm sorry I was grouchy and rude and said horrible things!" she cried, ignoring the small voice in her mind which reminded her candidly that apologies were not generally delivered at a shout.

It was like watching a high-speed video of an ice cube melting in the 35 degree Australian sun. The barriers Glorfindel had positioned himself behind disintegrated faster than dandelion seeds beneath a breath of air. His face softened, and he stepped towards her.

"Elanor," he said, softly. For a moment his Elvish grace was replaced by awkward uncertainty, and he appeared to stop himself from embracing her only by great effort. Instead, one hand reached cautiously out to brush the uninjured side of her face. Elanor almost wept from relief at the familiar caress.

"I'm sorry," she repeated in a whisper.

Glorfindel appeared not to hear her, but instead glanced at the graze which stretched from cheekbone to pointed chin. Elanor could see his pupils darting back and forth as he leaned close and gave it the attention of a doctor, never meeting her eyes. His touch was gentle, yet restrained. The Elves were by nature a chaste kind, but Glorfindel ordinarily possessed a demonstrative way about him which was now held firmly in check.

"Who treated this?" he inquired, still scrutinising the scrape.

"Indilwen," Elanor murmured.

"She has done good work," acknowledged Glorfindel, moving back a fraction and withdrawing his soft touch. "May I see your hand?"

Meekly, Elanor proffered her left hand. Within seconds the carefully-wrapped bandage was pulled away and he was observing the red line stretched . After a moment he shook his head.

"By the gods, Elanor! You came perilously close to losing full use of your hand," came the disbelieving mutter.

"What?" Elanor replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You could have lost—"

"No, I just didn't expect you to say that," she half-retorted half-laughed, caught between pique and relieved amusement. "I thought maybe you'd say how worried you were, or that you're glad I'm ok, but—"

Glorfindel looked down into her green eyes with perfect earnestness. "Elanor, I was worried. My heart was full of dread to see you approach with blood and tears mingling upon your cheeks. Yet you rebuffed me for my concern. I am relieved beyond words you did _not_ lose the use of your hand, however—your fingers are exquisite and deft and clever and I adore them all. I am filled with remorse for having caused you grief in my laughter or by causing you physical pain—something I should never dream of doing had I been aware."

This speech was delivered quietly and with utmost tenderness, and Elanor felt a pang of remorse once more at the hurt she must've caused him. Taking one of his hands in her uninjured one, she raised it to her lips and kissed it, featherlike.

"And I am so sorry I snapped at you. I won't excuse that, though you did hurt me awfully when you grabbed me. And I was so worked up and grumpy because I'd fallen, and in the armoury—" she broke off.

Glorfindel's eyes were full of love as he squeezed her hand in return. "All is forgiven, dearest."

"And I am very sorry for what I said about Elf-kind and mortal-kind," Elanor continued resolutely. "I know this is an issue we need to work out, but I shouldn't have brought it up like that, nor thrown it at you like an accusation. It's hard for me but I can imagine it must be harder for you, and I guess we can work it out another time. I was worried about it I guess, and when you laughed and I was hurt and grouchy and everything—it just kind of spilled out."

A frown flickered across Glorfindel's countenance, and the transparency of moment's before was lost. He did not withdraw, yet Elanor saw the warning in his gaze and knew that he would not endure any discussion of her mortality that evening.

 _Will he ever?_

Knowing it was futile at that time, Elanor gave a nervous smile. "Are we all right, Glorfindel?"

The Elf frowned slightly, though one side of his mouth quirked in his characteristic grin despite the faint shadow in his eyes. "What do you mean by that, El?"

"Is everything right between us?"

"Of course," he smiled graciously.

She raised an eyebrow archly. "Then why, loveliest of lovers, have you neither embraced nor kissed me this evening?"

Glorfindel threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing about the corridor like hearty, pleasant music. "You do not speak in hints or riddles, El."

"I'm not very good at hints or riddles," she replied frankly. "But I would like it if you kissed me."

"I should very much like to kiss you," smiled he, with equal brevity, "though I am gladdened to hear you say so, for I confess I was uncertain this evening. You were so vehement in telling me not to touch you that I have been at a loss since the afternoon."

Elanor flushed in embarrassment, though not because of the hand which slipped about her waist nor the fingers which rested beneath her chin.

 _You were quite forceful and temperamental…_

"I am very sorry for that as well," she admitted, slowly, her lashes lowered in unfeigned shyness. "I love to be held almost all the time, though at that moment you discovered the unlikely occasion in which being touched only incensed me. I regret that I was so angry about it."

Glorfindel didn't respond—he merely kissed her. It was a sweet, lingering kiss, and Elanor could not harbour any doubts about her fiancee's affection as he brushed her lips the last time.

"What were you doing in the armoury, El?" he asked quietly, cupping her jaw so their foreheads and noses were pressed together and their breaths mingled, warm and fragrant.

Elanor opened her eyes and sighed. Glorfindel released her.

"Just looking," she shrugged.

Her fiancee raised an eyebrow, gaze piercing to her soul.

 _Gee, for someone who plays the "just don't go there" card when it comes to mortality, he won't let you brush him off with any excuses!_

"I was just looking—I was out for a walk, and thought I should do some kind of exercise, and I didn't know… I wanted to see if I could face it."

"Fighting again?" he prompted.

"Yes."

"Oh Elanor," he breathed, grasping her and tugging her towards his chest. For her part, she did not resist. The sound of his heart throbbing in his chest was comforting and stabilising; his breath tickled the loose curls about her face and all she could smell was his scent, with it's faint hint of pine. He spoke some words to her, but pressed against his white tunic as she was, she could not hear them.

"What?" she mumbled, lifting her head away from the skin-warmed fabric so his chin rested on her crown and she could hear better.

"Do you continue to have nightmares, dearest?"

Confused, Elanor withdrew further so she could look at him. His face held grave concern. "How did you—"

"When we were journeying back from Minas Tirith, I heard you speak in your sleep—you were restless and muttered and sometimes you woke, though you didn't know I observed you. Do they still trouble you?"

"Yes, but not as often," she admitted a trifle reluctantly. She had done her best to hide any traces of the horror which still plagued her. Glorfindel had been distraught to find she had ridden upon the Pelennor, and she feared his disapproval. Rather than lecture her, however, he merely tucked her head beneath his chin again.

"If you are ever awake in the night and cannot sleep because of these dreams—do not endure the darkness alone. Elves do not sleep as humans do; call for me, and we shall walk beneath the stars or sit before a fire until you are again at peace. Will you promise to do this, and not hesitate on account of disturbing me, Elanor?"

"Yes," she murmured. "I will."

 _And,_ she muttered inwardly and with unshakable certainty as he held her tight, _I will get you to talk about my mortality. I'm glad we made up, but don't think for a moment that you're getting away with leaving this question unanswered._

 _He can't ignore it forever._

* * *

 **Woo! Chapter 43!**

 **I had this half-written almost immediately following Chapter 42, but I needed a bit of inspiration to finish it. My greatest problem was that I felt that it was somewhat melodramatic. Still, I feel like Elanor is normally so demure but she is a very touch-oriented person - she loves Glorfindel's physical attentions but when he hurt her (even accidentally) she flared up. That, I felt, fit with her character, as did her swift desire to apologise. The reason this fight was not so quickly resolved as the others (Glorfindel and Elanor both being fairly frank and good at conflict resolution) is because of the underlying problem; Elanor's mortality (as I'm sure you realised). So that's something I'll be tackling in the next few chapters. :D**

 **To come, we have the return of the other guests, the wedding (naturally) - and trying to work out how Elanor and Glorfindel can reside together knowing that one of them will die and leave the other to live forever.**

 **I hope you're still enjoying this, sorry for the long hiatus. Please leave reviews! I love hearing from ya'll about what you think.**

 **Happy reading. x**

 **Finwe.**


	44. Going to the Chapel

**Chapter 44 - Going to the Chapel**

* * *

 **26th June, 3020 (Third Age)**

Mother Nature could not have produced a more brilliant nor balmy day had she tried. The early sun seemed to leap over the horizon and grin cheerily at Elanor through the glass panes of her bedchamber.

Despite the early hour, she rolled over and sat up in bed. The fog of sleep lay heavy upon her mind as she blinked stupidly at the glare.

 _Far out, Elrond's sleeping draught was potent…_

She rubbed her eyes vigorously and then made a second attempt to take in the world.

 _Slept well… Nice morning, bright though… what's…_

 _Oh._

 _The wedding._

Today was the day.

The fog receded with alarming swiftness as Elanor flung the sheet away from her body and jumped out of bed. Memories galloped back as she scampered to the window to get a better look at the weather.

Thanks to her foster-father's suggestion of a sleep-inducing potion, she'd slept solidly since early the previous evening. The efficacy of the drug had bypassed the dreaded state of excited wakefulness and she felt ready to tackle a full-grown mountain troll.

 _I'm getting married today!_ her mind chanted gleefully.

 _I'm getting married today!_

There was not a cloud on the horizon, and the sky promised to be a deep blue. The gardens of Rivendell below her room were a riot of greenery and delicate summer blooms. Unable to quench her excitement, Elanor danced across the bedroom floor to peer out of the other windows, before throwing herself violently onto the bed. She ached to wriggle and laugh in sheer delight.

Moments later, the door was flung open and a rather sleep-dishevelled Georgia sprang into sight.

"Morning, bride!" the younger Ravenscroft cried, running forth and leaping onto the bed.

Elanor grinned at her sister's exuberance, finding it a ready match for her own on this particular day.

Georgia had returned from her visit to the Riddermark two weeks previously. Her light brown hair was lit with golden glints after many hours spent in the sun, her face bronzed and her hazel eyes twinkling brightly. The open-air life of the Rohirrim seemed to agree with her. Elanor had not spent much time with her sister since she arrived, distracted by the wedding preparations and the arrival of the other guests—namely Legolas, Gimli, Elladan and Elrohir. A small contingent from Lórien had also reached Imladris two days previous, adding to the cheery hubbub in the Last Homely House. And yet, in observing her, Elanor could not help but notice that something was different with the younger woman.

Georgia shuffled on the bed so she sat cross-legged facing her sister.

"How're you feeling?" she smiled earnestly, grasping Elanor's hand.

The latter stared deep into the hazel eyes and couldn't resist smiling back.

"Wonderful," she replied, and added with perfect truth, "and very glad you're here. I can't imagine getting married without my family around. I wish Mum and Dad were here, but I'd rather you than anyone else."

Georgia stared at her a moment before grasping her in a fierce hug. When she released her, Elanor noticed traces of tears on the brown cheeks.

"G!" she cried. "Are you all right?"

The other blinked rapidly, wiped her eyes and proffered a watery smile. "Sorry El, I know tears are unlucky at weddings."

"Not at all, everyone cries on the day. But seriously, are you ok?"

Georgia looked down and nodded, seeming to gather herself up to speak. At length the beguiling, dark-lashed eyes met Elanor's.

"I feel all emotional," she half-laughed. "I mean, I'm absolutely delighted you're getting married—it takes some getting used to still, that you're marrying one of the most epic characters in Middle-earth, you lucky thing! But it's great, it really is. I suppose I'm also… a bit confused. I've been here, in this world, for over a year now… and—and I still miss home. I miss home, El."

Elanor surveyed her in silence, pity welling up like a flood.

Her relationship with her sister had undoubtedly improved in previous months; they had parted in Rohan on good terms, and Georgia had been amazingly thoughtful and attentive despite the recent busyness.

And in moments like these, Elanor could not help but notice a deeper something in Georgia's eyes she had not appreciated two years before at the Medieval Folk Festival.

"I understand," she managed, raspy.

Georgia glanced back upwards, before returning to a study of her hands. "You seem so comfortable here though El. You've got Glorfindel, putting down roots in Middle-earth. But all I've done since I arrived is chill out in Minas Tirith and Edoras and Rivendell, freeloading off the book characters."

"That's ok, though," protested Elanor, placing a soft hand on Georgia's knee. "It's not like you're expected to do anything! G, this is your dream! We're in Middle-earth and all you have to do is sight-see and enjoy it."

When Georgia looked at her this time, she did not break away. "What if what I want has changed?"

Elanor paused, taken aback.

 _Goodness, why didn't I think of this before? I've been so hard on her, treating her like she needs to be kept in line the whole time. How come I didn't consider she'd be homesick at all? I was horribly lonely those first few months… the first year, really. Or more. Of course she is!_

"Oh Georgie, I didn't think."

Georgia shrugged. "It's not your fault. I'm kicking myself really; you're so perfectly happy here, so well-adjusted. I thought I should love it, because I love _Lord of the Rings_ , but—half the time I just want to go home. It's fun and beautiful and I'm so amazed to be living out the story, but El… I miss home and school! And I didn't tell you because I didn't want to ruin this for you with doubts. If you can handle it, why can't I?"

"But I didn't handle it!" half-laughed Elanor, rolling backwards and throwing out her hands. "Georgia, if you'd seen me in those first few months… I think I just started spontaneously crying every ten seconds!"

Georgia stared blankly.

"Really?"

" _Yes_! I did not have it all together—never had back at home, and I definitely didn't here. Just ask Elrond, or Glorfindel!"

Her eyes sparkled merrily as she continued.

"I am happy here—I have a fiancee, who will become my husband today—" _I'm getting married! I'm getting married today!_ "—but heaven's above, I was lonely and uncertain for a long, long time. I was resentful, and sometimes I still question why on earth we ended up here."

Georgia was silent for a moment before she directed another question at the bed, one hand absently toying with the silken sheets.

"I always thought you were the perfect, golden child El."

"Wait—what?"

"Back at home—you were always the good one, the perfect one. You got such good grades at school, and you were studying and had a nice boyfriend. I felt like Mum and Dad were always expecting me to live up to your standards."

 _What on earth…_

"Really?" Elanor asked, rendered almost dumb in her turn.

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"Well you had everything so sorted! And then I rocked up in Middle-earth… _my place_ ," she said, with fierce emphasis on the final two words, "and you were better at this than me too!"

"Better at living in Middle-earth?" in disbelief. "Georgia—no. Not in the slightest. And you know what? I always thought _you_ were the perfect kid back at home! At that Medieval festival we were at before we both disappeared, I was so busy feeling resentful towards you I didn't even have a good time!"

Georgia's hazel eyes widened.

"Actually?"

"Yeah," Elanor admitted, ruefully.

Then Georgia burst out laughing. After half a second, Elanor felt mirth erupting in her own stomach and soon joined her sister in a fit of helpless giggles.

The Ravenscroft girls laughed themselves to tears. As one would begin to wind down, the other would give an explosive choke and they would start all over again. Finally their laughter ceased, and they lay side by side gasping for breath and gingerly touching their aching stomach muscles.

"I think I needed that," Georgia managed at length.

"Me too," sighed Elanor. "Gosh G, I'm glad we got that out in the open. You have no idea how jealous of you I've been!"

"And I of you," chuckled her sister. "But I think we understand each other a bit better now, which is a good thing if I'm going to be the maiden aunt to all of your half-Elven children!"

Elanor felt a flutter of anticipation in her middle.

"Let's get through the wedding first, G, before we talk about kids!"

For a time, they lapsed into silence. Elanor, staring at the ornate ceiling as she had on that October day nearly two years before, found that it was an exceedingly comfortable silence. Georgia was contented by her side, lost in thoughts of her own. Between them lay a cosy and attractive camaraderie, wordless but like the echoes of laughter and merriment. It was like the sun had risen again, pouring it's illuminating warmth upon an apparition which had seemed grim and menacing—but was really nothing at all. The voicing of their feelings had shattered the tension between the sisters like glass, and for once Elanor experienced the sweetness of true sisterhood, uninhibited by any resentment.

 _And—I love it._

She had always loved Georgia— _but now I understand her._

True, her sister had grown up a lot in the past twelve months. She was less prone to impulsive speech, more considerate, and yet still full of the vivacity and joy which was irresistible when tempered by prudence. But it was more than that.

"G?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I've been so hard on you. Especially when you first arrived in Middle-earth. I was full of my own self-importance, and still very bitter toward you. I was worried you'd wreck things, and I think I came on way too strong and—rather cruel and biting."

"You did," replied Georgia, frankly. "But I made it much worse by responding in kind, merely to annoy you! Every time you told me to mind my manners, I would unconsciously—or… consciously sometimes—resolve to be just as irritating as I possibly could and ignore you."

Elanor half sat up and poked her sister in the ribs with a shocked expression. "You rascal!"

Georgia mimicked her position and repeated the gesture. "Coming from you, the Grinch junior!"

Both pairs of eyes twinkled blithely, and after a second fit of laughter, they resumed the conversation.

"It's been both our faults, really," said Elanor, one arm beneath her head. "And I'm very sorry G. Will you forgive me?"

"Of course—if you'll forgive me."

"Gladly."

Georgia wriggled as she lay. "I'm so relieved, El. I've wanted to bring this up since I got back here, because I wanted to talk to you more than _anything_."

"I'm sorry I didn't make time for you," Elanor sighed, reaching for her sister's hand and squeezing it. "I should've come to you. I've got plenty of things I needed to talk over with a sister, but I didn't want to expose any weakness!"

Georgia sat up and glanced out the window, before turning to Elanor with a cheeky grin. "It's still early—feel like sharing anything?"

Elanor joined her in sitting, scooting backwards so she leaned against the pile of pillows at the head of the bed.

"Will I cut straight to the chase?"

"Do," urged Georgia, leaning forward conspiratorially. "What worries you, sister?"

"Glorfindel," Elanor stated.

"The fact he's an Elf?"

The elder started at the accuracy of the question. "Well… yeah. He's immortal and we're not! We had a fight a few months back because—long story short, during the disagreement I accused him of avoiding the topic, and I've been too frightened to broach it again. He just seems to want to gloss over the whole thing. He confessed back in Minas Tirith that he had this unrequited love for Idril—you know the—of course you do," Elanor broke off, with a warm smile. "Anyway, I think the fact she married a mortal… maybe the issue's sensitive for him. _And_ he's lived with Elrond's family, and the whole Aragorn-Arwen debate has been going on for a long time. Understandable if he's a bit worried about it, but I just wish he'd cut to the chase." She sighed. "Not only that, but I feel somewhat intimidated marrying an Elf, especially as he seems to just conveniently forget I'm a Human. I'm not beautiful or strong or magical like an Elf, so—half the time I just feel like I'm not quite living up to his expectations."

Georgia shook her head slightly in disbelief.

"I guessed as much, but it's hard to notice for an outsider. You two seem so perfectly happy."

"Except for the mortality thing, we are," Elanor assured her. "He is the most wonderful thing that has happened to me. If not for him, I dunno I could stand the idea of living here forever."

"Do you sometimes wonder why we're here?" asked Georgia, in perfect earnestness.

"Ye-es—often. And all I can think is that we're obviously meant to be here, so we may as well trust it'll all work out ok. That's what I told myself with the war, and with Glorfindel."

Georgia's eyes shifted downwards then, and Elanor saw her cheeks blossom pink.

"Everything ok, Georgie?"

"Yep, totally fine," she replied, smiling a little woodenly and waving a hand in dismissal. "Just thinking."

"Anything you want to share?"

Georgia seemed to pause on the brink of denial, then shrugged. "I want to talk about a few things—but can they wait till after the wedding? We should have a good long chat, and I don't want to cloud your wedding day, or have to stop halfway through my pondering."

Elanor felt warmth and inexpressible affection for her sister flood into her chest.

"You've made me desperate to hear your news," she admitted archly, several possibilities flying in and out of her thoughts, "but I understand your reasoning. We aren't having a very long honeymoon, so I won't have to wait long. Do you promise we'll talk afterwards?"

Georgia laughed loudly. "I'm having trouble not telling you now—you won't get away with not hearing from me once you and Glorfy get back."

"Good," smiled Elanor, softly. "G?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really proud to be your sister, did you know that?"

Tears slipped out of Georgia's eyes before she could prevent them, and the sisters hugged fiercely.

"Thanks, El," mumbled the younger, into the other's shoulder. "Now," she continued, resolutely wiping her face. "It's your special day! Let's get started. Come on—time for your bath."

* * *

The following day, Elanor would remember little of the ceremony save an irrepressible joy. To attempt to encapsulate the perfect bliss felt by either bride or groom as they walked towards one another would be like catching darkness with one's hands.

Elanor Ravenscroft and Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower were wed beneath the trees of Imladris, surrounded by those dearest to them; Elrond and his sons, Georgia, Legolas, Gimli, all the occupants of Rivendell including a merry-eyed Bilbo Baggins, Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, and a scattering of others from Lothlórien. Aragorn and Arwen were unable to make the journey, nor were any others of Gondor or Rohan. From the Steward of Gondor and his elder brother came a fine set of silver goblets, and from the Lady Éowyn some jewels and a mass of very fine blue wool. As soon as Elanor saw it, her quick imagination began forming it into a dozen different gowns. Georgia had brought these gifts northwards on their behalf, along with fond greetings and imploring requests that the newlyweds visit soon. From Legolas there was a beautiful sapling uprooted from Mirkwood, of a variety previously unknown to Elanor, and from Gimli a dwarf-wrought necklace studded with stones akin to cloudy aquamarines. These they had acquired for the bride and groom upon their travels together. The Elves of Lórien provided a cunning belt of woven silver attached to a pair of slender, ivory-handled knives. Elrond provided the pair of gold rings which would seal their vows.

The ceremony itself was ironically unceremonious. Georgia had dressed her sister with skill and thought to show off Elanor's features whilst retaining her natural appearance. Nevertheless, Glorfindel was absolutely oblivious to what his bride wore that day, and Elanor didn't pay much heed to it herself. They exchanged rings, feasted upon the grass with their guests and then slipped quietly away in the twilight to a tent assembled on a hill in the far corner of the Valley of Rivendell.

It was a large tent such as the Rohirrim used, but made with typical Elvish skill so it appeared graceful and sturdy all at once. It stood on a gentle rise which ended abruptly in a cliff, affording the couple an excellent view of the Bruinen beyond. The cliff was not a high one, and at it's foot another grassy lawn stretched away, reached by a path close by the tent.

Summer wildflowers scattered the grass and the sun left glimmers of rose and violet and midnight blue in it's wake. The newlyweds paused for a time upon the small precipice, breathing deep of the fresh air and the perfume of each other. A perfect day slipping into a perfect twilight, unmarred by cloud or wind; even the trees and birds about them seemed untouched by any shadow as they clustered silently about the lovers, hand-in-hand.

Elanor could not imagine any place more exquisite as she gripped tight her husband's hand. And he, in turn, felt as close to perfect happiness as is possible in that late age with the sweet wife upon his arm.

 _There are things to be decided_ , mused Elanor silently, _and questions to be answered about the future yet. But now is neither the time for questions nor answers._

 _And, even with many things uncertain and uncounted... I am happy._

And so, in this state of happiness, we shall leave the lovers for a time.

* * *

 **They're married. :3**

 **There will be another chapter coming soon and quickly, for Elanor's fate is yet to be decided... and Georgia has news!**

 **I hope you guys liked this. Please feel free to leave a review. x**


	45. Of Idhrenor and Malrin

**Chapter 45 - Of Idhrenor and Malrin**

Glorfindel's entire frame tensed as he listened. Nothing moved. Cautiously, he shifted a fraction further and paused to assess any potential movement on the part of his wife.

Nothing.

 _My wife_.

The smile upon his face nearly split it from ear to ear. With more boldness, he slid sideways across the thick pallet and clambered to his feet.

The tent in which he stood was lit with clearest sunshine, leaking in between the unfastened tent flaps and illuminating the white of the canvas. These twisted and writhed in the slight breeze, preventing the tent - or rather, large pavillion - from growing stuffy. Outside it's door Glorfindel could see the emerald turf, craggy mountains and clear-as-the-ocean sky. His fair face was suffused with a shining joy as he stretched both arms high above his head. He wore soft linen pants but no shirt, and the muscles on his back rippled as he worked his upper body to loosen the kinks like a chiselled athlete.

This done, he glanced down to the sleeping-pallet beside him.

Elanor lay curled upon her left side, where moments ago she had rested within the circle of his arms. Her golden hair was splayed in every direction, and the shapely form was displayed to good advantage beneath the clinging sheets. One of her hands was cradling her own cheek, curled at her pink lips. The once-bronzed skin had lightened to creamy-gold but did not diminish her loveliness at all from the moment Glorfindel had first loved her - in Elrond's study. Her breathing was deep and regular. He had not wakened her.

Smiling once more, Glorfindel padded softly across the ground. The Elves of Rivendell had furnished the tent so that it's floor was covered in fine mats, and it was a luxurious apartment. Aside from the sleeping-pallet, there was some spindly tables made of dark timber, chairs of the same grain, cushions, a rack for hanging clothes and two chests - one for more clothing, and the other for food. It was to the latter that Glorfindel first went, pulling out some fresh bread and an apple. It was yet early, so he decided against waking Elanor - as much as he longed to - and moved silently outside.

The fresh air of the summer morning enveloped him in a gust, setting his spirit singing with gusto. His heart thudded a joyous song, for it was June and, more than that, his lady-lover was finally his.

Despite being only half-dressed, he seated himself so his legs hung over the edge of the low cliff which fell several metres outside the tent. Beginning on the bread, he sighed in utter contentment.

 _Elanor_.

She was witty and enchanting and exceptionally lovely, albeit in the straight-forward and earthy manner of human-kind. Glorfindel toyed with his golden ring absently. The day before had been a whirl of activity with the wedding and feasting, and the prospect of a leisurely fortnight alone with his new wife was bliss. Whilst he had little need for sleep himself, he had laid all night long with her slim form held close to his own. How he had longed to do that for many months! Glorfindel had never shared a bed with any other being, for nights spent huddled around a campfire on campaigns did not count. And, as the Third Age drew to a close, he rested silently with one arm cradling Elanor's head, and the other against her flat stomach.

He had been cautious at first, until she had reached for his hand and pulled it to rest on her hip. The caution diminished then, though his gentleness did not. She had dropped swiftly asleep, perfectly at ease pulled against his broad chest. Glorfindel was surprised how well she fit there, warm and soft and smelling like spring flowers. He had moved with the greatest caution, agonised lest he wake her from slumber. She appeared to be resting soundly, but Glorfindel did not desire to break the spell and lose the sight of her vulnerable face, dark lashes resting irresistibly on the smooth cheeks. Every breath against her hair caused his stomach to flutter in excitement.

 _Just like you were a mere Elfling again!_

Even sitting alone, his fair cheeks flushed slightly. He had courted Elanor properly - held her hand, embraced her, kissed her - yet there was much still of the shy young man in the lord's heart, and he directed his thoughts elsewhere.

It was still a rather baffling notion that he, Glorfindel, was married to the bewitching woman sleeping mere metres behind him. Something in his spirit had finally been unlocked. For many a year had he desired such a thing, to cherish and be cherished, and to have it bestowed upon him was more than he could comprehend. He could not help but recall the desperate ride between Dunharrow and Pelagir those months ago, during which he had silently longed for this moment, knowing it was too much to ask of the Valar that they should do so much. It was not the destiny of all the Firstborn to love, nor was that love always returned. This Glorfindel had known - and second chances were almost unheard of.

But he had won her, and not because it was his due - for there were many of the Race of Men who could have claimed the hand of Elanor. She was beautiful and mysterious due to her unknown heritage. More than that, she was charming and personable, well-dressed, witty and well-spoken. She might have been the Queen of Rohan, had the King Éomer been slightly less proud and gruff, or even the wife of the Steward.

 _And somehow she is mine. I can imagine no happiness greater than that she has brought me, and only fate should place two such as she and I together from beyond the borders of Arda..._

For the first time that morning, Glorfindel ceased to wear a beatified smile.

Elanor was fresh-faced and young, having turned a mere twenty-three half a year previously. Whilst to the Eldar that was scarcely more than a child, amongst mankind Elanor was a full-grown woman. As best as he had attempted to hide it from his lover, Glorfindel was unable to disregard the fleetingness of her allotted span. The pain and tension the topic had caused between them was enough to sour his stomach.

Swallowing the last morsel of the bread he had been slowly munching, he began on the apple with a sharp _crunch_.

 _Yet if the Valar destined Elanor to come to Arda, to arrive in Elrond's house by the slimmest twist of fate through Lord Boromir, and to be wedded with me, they shall answer if they allow the years to take her from me_ , he muttered internally, with no small degree of fierceness and determination. _They shall not! Did I not lose the one I first loved to another? Shall they again watch me suffer in Elanor's passing? No, for if there is to be no gift of life everlasting on her behalf I will not leave her whilst those of Elvenkind depart for distant shores. I will rule our fates. And until I may promise Elanor all is well, I must stay silent. Never again shall we quarrel on this matter._

A pensive cloud swept across his features, shadowing the blue eyes as the vehement thoughts gradually faded from his mind. Taking another large bite of his apple, he ushered the frustration into a corner of his mind and sealed it off. The unwelcome thoughts thus contained for the present, Glorfindel allowed himself the luxury of taking in the scenery before him. It was rendered even more beautiful by the new light of morning than by the twilight of yestereve, when he and Elanor had first entered the pavilion. So consumed by the view was he that he did not hear Elanor brush aside the tent flap until she was just behind him.

Turning hurriedly, he sprang upwards - dropping the half-eaten apple in his haste - and stood before her. She was clad in a long, flowing white robe fastened snugly about her enticing waist - a very flimsy garment compared to her usual attire. He realised then that he was also half-naked in full view of nature and stared at her blankly for a moment. On very few occasions had Glorfindel found himself so nonplussed as he did then, encountering the new-made wife before him with a coy expression on her countenance.

It was, indeed, a situation he had never experienced.

"Good morning, husband," she smiled teasingly, eyes moving up and down his form without any hint of shyness. She lingered long on his bare torso and Glorfindel was rather horrified to find his face growing redder. Elanor had never been brazen - and could not have been called so now - but if he had harboured any doubts, they were now dispelled. Elanor clearly liked what she saw.

Seeing his discomfiture, Elanor grinned wickedly and loosened her robe with slow, deliberate fingers, so it slipped off her shoulders slightly and swept down dangerously close to cleavage.

 _Indeed, you are a childish Elfling!_ came a scornful voice, and in an instant he had scrabbled for the shreds of his composure. He should not be bested.

"Morning, lady-wife," he replied jauntily, willing his cheeks to cool and stepping towards her with an implacable facade of self-confidence. Feeling rather wicked, he reached up to brush where her robe now rested on the smooth, creamy shoulder, all the while staring into her eyes. As his fingers wandered down her arm - casually taking the robe with it - it was Elanor's turn to blush and glanced downwards, one hand coming up to stop the robe falling off completely.

"Glorfindel, we're outside," she half-laughed nervously.

"Come inside, then."

She grinned like a girl, and reached up to encircle his neck. Glorfindel kissed her thoroughly, with far more boldness than he had during their betrothal. Lifting her off her feet, he began to half-carry her back towards the tent. Ducking inside, he placed her softly upon her feet. Her hands moved down his neck and across the muscle-knotted shoulders, then to his chest and stomach. Small fingers were distractingly warm on his bare skin. He had almost managed the fastening on her robe when Elanor suddenly withdrew from the kiss. She surveyed him with serious eyes before speaking.

"Hang on - did you eat breakfast without me?"

* * *

The sun had risen high by Elanor and Glorfindel had laid out a small feast upon a picnic blanket. The latter had spread a rug upon the springy grass at the bole of an oak tree, and they settled there to enjoy their breakfast spoils out of reach of the warm summer sun.

Elanor, face pink and mouth upturned, knelt carefully upon the rug. She had dressed in a grey gown and found her stomach rumbling as Glorfindel tore off morsels of bread and spread them with fresh honey.

He proffered one to her, and before relinquishing it swept in for a quick kiss. It was almost sweeter than the honey.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Glorfindel inquired, beginning on his own slice and slipping one arm about her shoulders.

"Very well, actually," Elanor admitted. "I wasn't sure if I would because I've never slept with anyone except Georgia and Mum once, but when I stirred at all I went back to sleep almost immediately."

Glorfindel nodded. "I am glad. I was worried I would disturb you."

"Nope," his wife laughed. "Though I did have half a second of shock when I realised I was sleeping next to you. Then I remembered we got married yesterday." She held up her slender left hand, so that the band of gold about her fourth finger glinted in the dappled sunlight beneath the oak tree's canopy. "I like being married."

"So do I - though I daresay most people allow a little longer before they make such a definitive statement," chuckled the Elf, brushing back his golden hair. The soft strands, hanging past his shoulders, were unfastened from any kind of braid. Tilting her head to get a better look, Elanor realised she had never seen her husband without some form of braid.

"Your hair's not done," she mused, turning slightly and brushing breadcrumbs off her hands. "I thought you left the braids in?"

Glorfindel shrugged. "Not all of the time, though I do during campaigns."

"Could I braid it for you?" pleaded Elanor, a little shyly. "I've never done a man's hair before."

"Do men not grow their hair long in Australia?"

"Not many of them, and I never played with their hair," with a wrinkled nose, recalling the thick, matted hair of some Byronites of Georgia's acquaintance.

"Then braid away."

Elanor beamed and moved so she knelt behind her husband. "Shall I do your normal braids?"

"Do you think you could manage that?" he teased.

"Yes," came her honeyed retort, "though I thought I might experiment a little."

"By all means."

Grinning, Elanor began to run her fingers through the thick, satiny gold hair. Her own curls were soft and smooth, but his Elvish tresses were like a river of pure silk between her fingers, softer than velvet or ducklings or a baby's skin. For several minutes, she simply marvelled at it's beauty and couldn't believe she hadn't accosted him to play with his hair earlier.

 _It's beautiful!_

Acutely conscious of her own hair's limitations, she smoothed his and parted it. Beginning just above his ear, she started on a minute fishtail braid along the side of his head.

"Would you like some strawberries and cheese?" Glorfindel inquired, attempting to gather some more foodstuffs whilst restricted by Elanor's ministrations.

"Yes thanks," she replied absently, head held at a right angle in an effort to keep the braiding neat and even. She loved to braid, and her fingers were nimble after much practice on herself. Still, she realised that it was not _quite_ as perfect as Glorfindel's own work, and this caused her to purse her lips in mild annoyance.

"What would you like to do today, loveliest of wives?" the Elf asked brightly, passing a generous wedge of cheese followed by a handful of strawberries over his shoulder. Elanor paused in the braiding, holding the plait between two fingers as she munched thoughtfully on the sweet, red berry.

"I don't know," she mumbled, wiping juice from her lips and swallowing. "I feel horribly lazy."

Glorfindel chuckled, a sound which turned to an indignant grunt as the movement caused him to pull against Elanor's hold on his hair.

"Careful, El! You'll pull it out of my head!"

Laughing and finishing another strawberry, Elanor continued the tiny braid. "I thought you'd have a better pain threshold than that, seeing as you keep your hair so long and leave it out!"

He paused. "I suppose I am not accustomed to another tending to my hair. No one has since my mother."

"Oh," she replied slowly, her fingers moving mechanically as she thought. "Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

"Will you tell me about your family?"

There was a fractional hesitation, before he nodded and released another sigh of pain.

"Sorry," interjected Elanor.

"It is of no matter. Yes, El, I shall speak to you of my family. It is many years since I dwelt upon them, for I looked upon Turgon's kindred as my own - and now you are my kin."

 _And I rather like hearing you say that..._

"I'd love to hear it," she said aloud, frankly. "Though I'd never want to pry, hon."

Elanor having finished the braid, Glorfindel turned around to face her, his eyebrow quirked in childish curiosity.

"What is _hon_?"

"Short for _honey_ ," came the merry reply. "A term of endearment."

"I like it," smiled he, leaning in to brush her lips again. "And Elanor-" with seriousness "-you will never pry, and not because I shall ask you not to. You are my wife, and any concern of mine is a concern of yours. Thus, you may be at liberty to question me in any manner you desire, and I will hide nothing from you, no matter how long-ago or painful in remembrance."

This time, Elanor kissed him, filled with a fresh appreciation for her new spouse. Despite their long years, oftentimes the history of the Elves was left unspoken out of pain and tenderness. She supposed it was because they had endured many wars, and death to the Eldar was a bitter cup, best left untasted. Elanor had asked Glorfindel for many stories of his second span in Middle-earth, dwelling in Rivendell with Elrond's household, but had generally avoided anything prior to his encounter with the balrog in Gondolin. Upon discovering the breadth of her new freedom, Elanor was unsure whither to go. There were many questions she longed to ask.

Finally, she smiled again. "I would love it if you told me about your parents."

"And so I shall." He turned so she was at liberty to continue her work on his hair. "What do you desire to know?"

"Oh," Elanor considered. "Well, first, did they ever come to Middle-earth?"

"No, they remained in Valinor. I left them to journey with Turgon's people east-wards, to Beleriand. My father's name was Idhrenor, in the Sindarin tongue, and my mother's Malrin."

"They're beautiful!"

"Yes, though I find the Sindarin translation a peculiar taste upon my tongue."

Elanor paused, mid-way through braiding down the other side of her husband's head. "Idhrenor... is that - _wise man_ or some such thing?"

Wary of unexpected tugs, Glorfindel merely laughed. "Your Sindarin improves! And Malrin?"

"Golden crown, perhaps?"

" _Lady crowned with gold_ , yes. My mother was of the Vanyar."

"Oh," smiled Elanor. "Well that explains it."

"The colour of my hair?"

"Well, that too, but I was thinking the reason you're so good-looking."

He laughed heartily. "You speak honeyed words, Sunstar!"

Had Glorfindel been facing the other way, he should have seen the look of arch satisfaction upon his wife's face. As he was not, however, she continued braiding uninterrupted. After a moment's consideration, she switched to Sindarin, eager to brush up on her vocabulary.

"You are part Vanyarin? I believed so. Please, continue."

"In this tongue?"

"Yes. It will help me learn."

"I shall begin with my Father," Glorfindel shrugged. "Pray, interrupt if you do not understand anything I say. In some senses, describing him is simpler than my mother. He was a Noldorin Elf, accounted high amongst the House of Finwë, though not of their kin. Thus did I become part of Turgon's company, for he was well-acquainted with Idhrenor of the Noldor, first in a line of Princes. He wed my mother in Valinor, and I was born in Tirion, in the Years of the Trees. Lady Idril was some years my junior, for I was full-grown when we crossed the Helcaraxë, and she but a child. She was one of only two Elves of the third generation that passed out of Valinor."

He paused, and Elanor interjected swiftly before he could dwell long on Idril's mother's death, "So you left Valinor of your own accord?"

"Indeed, though I shall come to this later, oh impatient one," he protested, cheerfully. "Let me continue the story as I see fit! Idhrenor was never deep amongst the councils of the Noldor, for he had little interest in politics or intrigue. He was tall and proud, raven-haired and fair, with great wisdom. Many questioned this wisdom, in that he remained aloof, yet for my part I consider it greater still in that he did not join the march east-ward. I cannot say the same for myself," he chuckled wryly, "though I see now that I have been blessed. The wisdom of Idhrenor, perhaps, saved me from much greater pain - I was given leave to return to Middle-earth, and thus encounter thee, by the grace of the Valar. And, I suspect, in no small measure due to my father's influence over Nienna, Lady of Mercy."

Elanor smiled softly behind his head, finishing the second tiny braid. As Glorfindel continued, she reached for the thick portion which fell down the middle of his back and began to experiment with the supple strands.

"My father was fierce and hot-tempered, and I learned swiftly that to defy him was to incite his wrath. Yet he was fair-minded and kind, and his anger just. I fear I inherited his temper, though it was never turned towards my mother. Now I come to her, lovely even amongst the Vanyar. Her hair was clearest gold, and her lineage a match for my father's. Thus Malrin was her name, gold-crowned in every sense. As with most of the Vanyar, she had no desire to leave Valinor, and it was her longing and disappointment more than Idhrenor's anger that I feared when I departed.

"Mother was as a bird, sweet in song, graceful in movement, and gentle always. Where ada was stern, proud, strong, she was as malleable as soft clay and cheerful as a stream which laughs over the stones upon it's bed. Only one thing might incite her to anger - to see that which is good and lovely destroyed, and well do I remember her grief when the light of Laurelin and Telperion became sullied.

"I spent much time with my father, for as a child I longed to imitate Idhrenor in thought and deed. Still do I cherish this, and in times of woe oft turned my thought towards him beyond the sea - but much of my mother I loved also, more because I did not understand it. Her music could stir Manwë's heart, and under her tutelage I learned to caress the harp's strings."

"I didn't know you played!" cried Elanor, leaning down so her face stood near his ear and planting a kiss upon his cheek. "We must ask Erestor to send us a harp, so you may serenade me."

"If you desire it I shall," Glorfindel smiled. "There - now you know of my kin. I have no brothers nor sisters. Ecthelion was perhaps the closest I have ever come to such a being. You would have liked him."

Elanor nodded slowly, her quick mind attempting to take in all that he had said. She had become quick at switching between Sindarin and the Common Tongue, but still it took more thought than regular conversation. As her husband spoke, weaving the tales of a family left behind in Valinor, Elanor found that they came to life before her eyes. Dark-haired Idhrenor, with the stern jaw and serious eyes, and Malrin dancing circles about him. Her face was harder to encapsulate, spoken in the poetic language of birds and brooks, yet Elanor decided she would have a slim, girlish face and a faraway look in her eyes.

Somehow, the picture ended up looking distractingly like Evanna Lynch playing Luna Lovegood in Elven-robes.

Shaking herself and trying not to laugh at the impression, she abandoned her husband's hair and let her hands fall to his shoulders. She could also see traces of her Glorfindel amidst the images he wove - there was something familiar in his description of Idhrenor, and it mingled pleasantly with Malrin till it became her husband. As her fingers tattooed a rhythm on his back, she silently recited to herself:

 _"He was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and clean, and his voice like music; on his brow set wisdom, and in his hand was strength."_

She smiled softly. Her affection for the Elf had run deeper than her own awareness; she had copied that quote from the now-destroyed copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ before she left Rivendell with the Grey Company.

 _I would have liked to meet his parents... I think Idhrenor would have been one of those kind, yet rather gruff types, like Uncle Matt back home. And Malrin..._

 _...Luna?_

 _If that slips out you're going to have a lot of explaining to do!_

 _Well it kinda works! Anyway, I think Malrin would be one of this airy-fairy types, amusing and kind but not quite grounded._

 _Shame you'll never meet them._

 _Yeah... and that he'll never meet your family._

A pang struck her chest, and with it the pain of their past disagreements. Glorfindel still did not mention her mortal fate - _even though we're married now, and it's too late to do anything about it_ \- and it was a rather melancholy prospect that neither should become acquainted with the other's parents.

 _Even more so that you might be parted from **him** forever!_

"So what made you leave Valinor?" she inquired, reverting to the Common Tongue and hurrying onwards.

"Oh-ho," Glorfindel replied, with a merry grin as he turned around. "You shall not hear that yet - at least until you afford me the pleasure of fastening your hair! I assure you, I am exceptionally capable."

Elanor laughed helplessly as he chivvied her around so that their positions were reversed. Within seconds, Glorfindel had unfastened her long braid and was finger-combing the hip-length, golden curls.

"It's knotty," she warned him, acutely conscious of how the fine strands liked to wind themselves together. _Nothing like your hair._

"It's lovely," Glorfindel asserted, beginning above her right ear.

Shrugging inwardly, Elanor adjusted her seat slightly. "All right then - part two of the epistle?"

"If you insist," he sighed dramatically, "though this part shall be short, for there is no real reason to linger upon my reasons for departing. I was young and fresh, of the second generation of the Noldor, proud and, at times, frustrated with the immovability of my father. My mother had grown grief-stricken at Morgoth's work, and the destruction of the Trees, and grew increasingly distant. Those bitter memories have long since ceased to pain her, for when I was brought forth from Mandos' Halls I beheld her once more. Still, at the time, I knew nothing more than a restless, cynical anger, and oft found greater comfort with Turgon and Elenwë."

"And you followed them?"

"Aye; Father was infuriated at the prospect of a rebellion against the wishes of the Valar, and forbade me to even associate with any who contemplated leaving. Naturally," he chuckled, "I became fast friends with Turgon and Elenwë, and also Galadriel, if you would believe it."

"Of course," laughed Elanor, recalling her handful of personal memories associated with Galadriel of Lórien. "She crossed the Helcaraxë too. Finwë's household was a determined one."

"Indeed they were! They offered me the prospect of fame and glory, of prestige amidst the Gondolindrim. What did you make of your second meeting with the Lady Galadriel, at the wedding?"

Elanor paused, and gave a shrug. "Honestly, she's more than I can wrap my head around-"

"What does that mean, dearest?"

"Oh," she realised, then laughed heartily once more. "It means, to understand. Sorry."

"Pray, do not apologise! I am learning a great deal in your presence, melleth nin."

"Anyway, Galadriel is very... deep, I guess. She seems far, far older than any of you others, even though you are not so much younger. In which case, I must assume she has a different personality. She seems like she's lost in her thoughts most of the time."

"There is much of her that one must grow accustomed to," Glorfindel admitted. "But you like her?"

"Oh, yes - even if she's very different to the Galadriel I imagined."

"That is well. Have I explained myself well enough in all we have spoken of, dearest?"

Elanor smiled and attempted a nod before she remembered Glorfindel was holding a chunk of her hair. Half-laughing, she replied,

"Yes, I believe I understand you a little better."

"And," came his smug addition, "you've had a taste of your own medicine now. See, it does hurt!"

Elanor patted his knee with infuriating condescension. "Come now, you great silly - have a strawberry, they're soothing."

For several minutes, they sat in silence, Glorfindel's clever hands weaving what Elanor supposed was a bafflingly intricate pattern across the side of her head. She frowned thoughtfully.

"Glorfindel?"

"Yes?"

"You said you had told me the Sindarin equivalent of your parents names. Does that mean you had a Quenyan name as well? All of you?"

"Indeed - mine is Laurefindil."

"Laurefindil?" Elanor tasted it. "Do you like that name?"

"I-I have not been spoken of so for many years, since before my return to Middle-earth in the Second Age. But I think I would not mind, if you were to use it."

Grinning a little wickedly, Elanor put on her best voice of innocence. "What if I called you _Laurie_?"

"Laurie?" the surprise evident in his tone. "Is this a name of your world?"

"Ye-es," replied his wife, thinking of _Little Women_ and the boyish neighbour Theodore Laurence.

"I believe I could grow to like it," he considered, slowly. Elanor almost started at his swift acquiescence.

"Excellent," she smiled, then added in an inaudible tone, "Just call me _Amy_."

* * *

 **Here we have our first post-wedding chapter, in which I hoped to capture as much as I could of the pair's playfulness. I can't imagine them not having fun, even doing mundane things like braiding hair and eating breakfast.**

 **I also wanted to speak of Glorfindel's family, as there's not anything really on his history prior to joining Turgon in Gondolin. Thanks to the One Wiki to Rule Them All, I was able to ascertain several important facts:**

 **\- he was born in Tirion  
\- he was obviously a second-generation Elf, as he passed the Helcaraxë with the Noldorin and yet Idril and one other were the only third-gen Elves  
\- he was born during the Years of the Trees (as far as this is assumed)  
\- he was of a line of princes, so evidently his Father at least was of a high-Elven line**

 **Anyway, I wanted something of his family to come through (plus who doesn't love Luna Lovegood references?) and decided this was the perfect time.**

 **Please also excuse the _Little Women_ reference - that was one of my favourite childhood books (and still in adulthood) so it needed a bit of lip-service.**

 **Thanks for continuing with the fic this far! It's not over yet, but we're getting towards crunch time. :3**

 **Please leave a review if you have time!**

 **\- Finwe. x**


	46. Future Past

**Chapter 46 - Future Past.**

* * *

"I don't think I shall ever really want to leave here," Elanor admitted, lying back in the springy grass with an inelegant sigh. "It's such a _comfortable_ tent, and the pool is so good for bathing; really, Glorfindel, I don't think we could do better."

The Elf she addressed merely grunted in response as he flung himself down beside her.

"Not tired, are you?" his wife inquired, rolling to one side and propping her head up with her elbow.

Glorfindel raised one eyebrow at her. "Never, melleth. Though I ought to be, seeing as I had to return to the bathing pool _twice_ because you threw my towel in the water!" Elanor merely tucked her hands behind her head in response and adopted an expression of angelic innocence.

It was some two weeks since the wedding. Their fortnight's honeymoon had been vaguely extended, both Glorfindel and Elanor having decided that it was far too pleasant living in the open air of the pavilion to give it up. They had composed a rather haphazard and imprecise note explaining their continued absence and left it where it would be found—at a rock formation where they had been collecting their supplies every three or four days. Confident that all the loose ends were more or less tied up, the newlyweds had settled back to enjoy themselves. They ate and swam and hiked and slept and became better acquainted with one another, to their mutual satisfaction. This particular day, they had risen early and swum in a clear, rocky pool which was fed by the Bruinen, before eating an enormous breakfast. This had led to their reclining amidst the scattered wildflowers to process their shamefully large meal, as the morning sky deepened in colour to a vibrant blue.

"It is without a doubt," Glorfindel remarked after a short time, "that fresh air has served you well."

Elanor glanced at him enquiringly.

"You look lovely," her husband said, by way of explanation. Elanor laughed.

"I _feel_ very well. It's all the sunshine; the summer here is so pleasant, and all the time in the sun, swimming and walking, makes me feel like I'm at home. I have a tan again!"

Glorfindel made no comment; whether fair or brown he admired his wife's smooth complexion, though admittedly harbouring a secret fondness for the dusting of freckles which had cropped up on her small nose.

"What do you desire to occupy you today?" he asked, instead.

This caused Elanor to sit up. She had opted for a new wardrobe item today; a pair of long pants, which were tailored to sit high on her waist with neat tucks and fall straight and slim. They were rather like dress pants she would've worn to an office back home, though made from a soft blue linen and coupled with a high-collared embroidered shirt and a brown leather belt. They were exceedingly comfortable, whilst still being figure-hugging; Glorfindel had openly admired them, and Elanor happily turned to them as a middle ground between floor-length gowns and breeches.

"Well, we did write in that note we left for Ada to send Georgia out today; so I suppose I should walk to the rock and see. I asked that she would meet me there at one o'clock, so really we've only got the morning to fill," said Elanor, happily. "We've already climbed up to the top of the valley twice, and followed the river and built several dams… What would _you_ like to do?"

Glorfindel, realizing that his wife expected a contribution, settled the matter by tugging her down beside him and kissing her. Momentarily distracted, Elanor slipped her left arm around his neck, buried in his satiny hair, whilst Glorfindel grasped her about the waist. After a moment Elanor pulled back from the kiss, pressing her nose against his.

"But seriously, Glorfindel, what do you want to do today?"

He laughed. "You are very persistent, Elanor! And I am rather dismayed to discover that you are less easily distracted than when first we wed."

* * *

Several hours later, Elanor ambled slowly along a narrow path toward a tall rock out-cropping in the direction of Rivendell. The pavilion had been erected as far as Elrond could manage from the main house, in the effort to give the pair plenty of privacy. Fortunately, the valley was long and scenic, and for over two weeks Elanor had seen no one but Glorfindel.

Today, however, she would see Georgia. Despite being reluctant to leave the honeymoon stage behind, she was itching to speak with her sister again. Georgia had spoken of withheld news before the wedding, and even a prolonged honeymoon would not prevent Elanor from hearing said news. Glorfindel had opted to spend the afternoon fishing, and his wife had collected food for a packed lunch and set out to meet her sister.

When Elanor arrived at the rock, she found Georgia in conversation with Erestor, who had escorted her thence. The dark-haired Elf seemed a little disappointed that Glorfindel had not come to meet them, but waited with good grace whilst Elanor and Georgia greeted one another in incoherent raptures. After a minute of uninterrupted chatter, Elanor turned to greet Erestor with a friendly bow.

"It is good to see you, friend," she smiled, speaking confidently in Sindarin. The Elf's grey eyes lit up and he responded in kind.

"And I am gladdened at the sight of you, Lady Elanor."

"I regret that Glorfindel did not come to meet you, and I am sure he would wish to speak with you after these weeks apart. Georgia and I shall go for a walk, and if you would like, I believe you will find him just north of the pavilion, fishing." Erestor beamed at this, bowed and moved off confidently in the direction of the pavilion.

Grinning, Elanor glanced back at her sister.

Georgia appeared scarcely less hearty and hale than she herself did. The younger Ravenscroft girl had lost none of her golden tan from months in the open air of the Riddermark; her light brown hair was touched with gold and her hazel eyes sparkled with pleasure as she hugged her sister for a second time.

"I'm so glad to see you, Ellie!"

"Same here," sighed Elanor. "Let's start walking; I've got us a lovely lunch and Glorfindel and I found a beautiful glade by the river where I thought we could eat."

"Sounds good."

For a quarter of an hour, the two sisters walked and chatted of trivial things. Georgia told of Elladan and Elrohir's antics in the absence of the honeymooners, and of Legolas and Gimli. Elanor smiled.

 _It mightn't be so bad to be back, after all… but I suppose another week or two shan't hurt. Everyone will still be there when we get back._

It was not long before they reached the glade Elanor had spoken of; a small circle of trees hemmed in a positive bower of wildflowers which stretched to the edge of the river. Here, the Bruinen split into two smaller water courses, with a tiny islet in the middle, and ran noisily over rocks. The hollow was a little damp, but several fallen trees provided excellent seating with a view toward the water.

"This is _wonderful_ ," sighed Georgia, subsiding on a log and gazing at the vibrant blossoms.

"It is, isn't it," her sister replied, joining her and beginning to divide the lunch package up. "Glorfindel and I have come here several times for picnics."

"Now we get to it," grinned Georgia, sparkling eyes perusing her sister. "Married life suits you, I think El."

"I'm glad to hear someone else say so—I've been thinking it the last fortnight, but I don't think Glorfindel and I could be called unbiased judges."

Georgia paused a moment. "And you're happy?"

"Perfectly," said Elanor firmly, without a second's hesitation. "Here, that sandwich is yours, without the tomato—I remembered, yes—and you've also got an apple. Anyway, we're excessively happy. Each day has been nicer than the last. It's been such an active honeymoon—lots of exercising and time in the fresh air, but very restful all the same."  
"I'll bet—if it's anything like life in Rivendell I can imagine you must be in absolute heaven. I can see why you like it here. Anyway, I was pretty sure you were having a nice time when we got your note, but, as your sister, it's my job to make sure your husband is nice."

Elanor grinned. "Exactly." She took a large bite from her sandwich. "Now. Let's not beat about the bush, G; I have no news, except that Glorfindel is the most wonderful person I could have imagined. But we both know that you have news you haven't told me yet, and I simply couldn't wait till we came back. So we may as well have it out now. It's been niggling at the back of my mind for my entire honeymoon!"

"Well!" cried Georgia, in astonishment. Then she laughed. "You're so cold-blooded about it, Ellie! 'You've got some big news, so just have it out'—so matter of fact!"

"If you like, I could have gradually worked up to it, taking about three times as long and leading you on a merry dance—though it's far less shocking. Would you prefer I did that?" teased her sister.

"No," the other replied, shaking her head. "Well, I may as well be just as frank as you."

"Ye-es?" beamed Elanor, expectantly.

"You bloodthirsty monster," Georgia admonished her, with another chuckle. "Alright, though this will take a little time in the telling. I'll try and be brief."

"I will be a perfect audience," said Elanor, taking a bite from her sandwich and smiling with her sea-green eyes. "Proceed."

"Well, it started when I stayed behind in Rohan with Éowyn. She was absolutely wonderful; I can't imagine a better friend really, and we had a great time. She's smart and kind and the best horsewoman I've ever seen, so I got to spend a lot of time doing outdoor stuff with her. And the things she taught me about horsemanship! Gosh El, we'll have to do some riding practice here together. You've probably gotten some tips from the Elves too, but Éowyn was just fantastic! Anyway, we had other things to do as well. I got adopted as a kind of lady-in-waiting for her, and she just took me right under her wing. We spent a lot of time doing courtly duties alongside Éomer, as he'd just become king and all that, and Éowyn had some loose ends to tie up before she goes off to marry Faramir."

At this remark, Elanor gave an involuntary squirm. She had always loved the Éowyn-Faramir dynamic, and hearing of their marriage brought her profound joy.

"What?" inquired Georgia, looking at her fidgeting sister.

"Sorry," grinned Elanor. "Just excited for Éowyn. They're the sweetest couple."

"Fair enough," her sister admitted. "Anyhow, we ended up in Éomer's company a lot. So you know how Éomer marries Lothiriel? Well, being snoopy, I was very curious to find out when they actually meet and wed. The date escapes me somehow, and I'm not sure if it's even recorded. I thought it would be cool to be able to document that, even if we never go home. Apparently, though, it's not for some time, because she certainly hadn't arrived before we left."

"That's a shame."

"Well—yeah," said Georgia, blushing slightly and busying herself with taking a bite from her sandwich.

Elanor paused, surveying her with a critical eye. "Why are you all re— _ohhh_ ," she gasped, suddenly enlightened. " _Georgia_! Not Éomer?"

The lady addressed looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Don't drag me over the coals, El! I didn't mean for it to happen!"

Elanor gasped. "I'm not going to blame you, G! I just—I just can't believe it! You've achieved the impossible, Georgia Ravenscroft!"

Georgia set her sandwich aside and buried her face in her hands. "I've baffled myself, El! I don't know how it happened."

"Well what _did_ happen? Goodness, that man's more uptight than—ok, ok, sorry," when Georgia attempted to swat her over the head. "I suppose he must be different outside of an environment filled with war, but my memories of Éomer are… mixed. Still, I want you to tell me your tale, and I promise to reserve judgement till later. How, Georgia, did you manage to get Éomer Eadig to fall in love with you?"

"I wish I could tell you," moaned Georgia. "We were often in company together, he and Éowyn and I. I learned to blend in well—Éowyn saw to that. She dressed me as one of the Rohirrim and taught me of the customs of the land. I even learned quite a bit of Rohirric, so if you ever want to listen in on conversations—I'm your gal." She winked at her sister, sending Elanor into a peal of laughter. Half a moment later, order was restored, and Georgia continued. "Anyway, I just always thought of him as marrying Lothiriel, so I was busy enjoying my time with Éowyn. Besides, I'd heard _your_ opinion of him, and it wasn't the most endearing, so—"

"Oh, G, there was nothing _bad_ about him, really. The only time I had much to do with Éomer was in the most stressful of situations—like at Helms Deep, and Dunharrow. In those moments I noticed that he was proud, and full of spirit, rather superstitious about things, but altogether a good man. He loves Éowyn dearly, I know that much. Even if he is rather blunt, I definitely don't think he's cruel or unkind—just rather fierce and hot-tempered and rather annoying at the time. And, of course, all of his very worst qualities would have come out in those moments, so it's a good sign really if that's the worst I saw of him."

Georgia laughed. "That I will attest to. He may flare up in anger very quickly, and subside almost as fast."

"That is better than someone who flares up and _stays_ angry," her sister teased. "Now tell me more—how precisely did this come about?"

"It's very simple, really. I became thoroughly established in the Golden Hall, thanks to Éowyn. We have the backing of the Steward of Minas Tirith, all due to your marvelous efforts with Boromir and Faramir, El. Only those two know how I mysteriously appeared in the Gondorian countryside, aside from the Elves who are in on our secret. I made up as honest a tale as I could—that you and I are from the north-country, here among the Elves. I'm not sure whether Éomer's distaste for the Elves has lessened thanks to their efforts in battle, or whether he's merely fond of you—" at which remark Elanor reciprocated her sister's earlier attempt at a flick over the ear "—but he accepted the tale of my origins with equanimity. I was richly dressed, had been in association with the nobility in Gondor, whom the Rohirrim seem to regard highly, and I had the open backing of the Elves. That appeared to be enough for him. We started spending more and more time with one another, walking and riding—Éowyn was busy at times, and it was fun." Georgia turned bewitching hazel eyes to meet Elanor's. "I liked him, too. Once you get past his rather stern exterior, he's very kind—and excessively gentle! He treated me like a piece of eggshell the entire time, insisted on doing every little courtesy for me. How could I not fall for him?"

Elanor shrugged. She would not shirk from admitting that the new Lord of the Mark was a handsome man, in a rugged fashion. Whilst coloured similarly to Glorfindel, he was exceedingly earthy, with a far broader, heavier build than one of the Elvenkind. She had been far too tired when she had first met him to goggle at his good-looks, but on reflection she could see the attraction. He was tall and blonde, with a clean-cut jaw-line and a musculature worthy of a Calvin Klein model.

 _Yep. Makes sense._

"It would be hard not to," Elanor conceded. "And he spoke to you about it?"

"Yeah, in kind of a Darcy-like way. He said he wanted to get married—though you can imagine how properly he would have spoken—and, whilst he'd been suspicious of our lineage when he'd first met you, he had decided we were obviously a family of some merit."

" _Did_ he now?"

"Oh, El, lay off!"

"What? I didn't say a thing!"

"No, but you implied it. He was kind about the whole thing, but he obviously had doubts."

"Well yeah, we're two females who have made good connections, but don't have a patriarch to speak for us and guarantee our suitability. I can _understand_ his doubts. Fortunately for us, they're very wary of the Elves and have no way of knowing their customs; the ambiguity works in our favour. Added to that is that they can't check up on our parentage. As long as we have money and respectability, we're sorted."

"This is sounding more and more like a Jane Austen novel," chuckled Georgia.

"Not much difference, except we have swords and bows instead of muskets and rapiers," agreed Elanor, a trifle grimly. "Hence, why I remained with the Elves. Here, I gained a position of importance because I'm a novelty!"

"El," put in Georgia, growing earnest. "They love you here, do you know that? They're all asking after you as much as Glorfindel! Especially Legolas and Gimli."

Elanor flushed with pleasure. "I'm a pet to the Elves, really. I think they just like having a new human around to study—but it's nice to be missed, whatever the reason."

"It is—and I have missed you! Gosh, but I've wanted to tell you about Éomer since I got home, and it was so hard not to burst out with it, or tell someone else!"

"You didn't turn him down, did you?" Elanor cried, suddenly alarmed.

"What, you criticise him, and then demand to know if I've accepted?" scoffed Georgia, with a hint of a smile. "Of course I said yes, El. Unfortunately, though, as he is the King of Rohan… well, it's going to be an affair of some importance."

Elanor frowned thoughtfully. "I forgot he was King."

"Yeah," sighed Georgia.

"Well, that complicates things slightly."

"But you still think I should—?"

"If you love him," said Elanor, simply.

"I do."

"Then yes, marry him. But I guess this means we're all taking a journey back south for a wedding of state, doesn't it?"

Georgia grinned. "Something like that."

* * *

"I trust you enjoyed some time to converse with your sister, melleth."

"I certainly did," sighed Elanor, seating herself next to her husband upon a rug. He placed a possessive arm about her shoulders as they both leaned against the log. In front of their feet, a sizeable campfire danced gaily against an inky sky liberally scattered with radiant stars. "It was lovely to see her again—and she gave me some rather important news."

"Indeed?"

"It is a secret, but I will tell you—during her time in the Riddermark, Georgia fell in love with King Éomer, and he with her. So we shall have a Queen Georgia in the future! What say you to that, husband?"

Elanor turned in an effort to discern Glorfindel's face in the darkness. The firelight cast a pleasant hue on his features, and she saw that he smiled.

"I am glad that they find happiness in one another."

"Well!" cried Elanor. "You don't seem _nearly_ so shocked as I was!"

"Why should I be?"

"…I don't know, honestly. I was dumbstruck, though. I could not believe that Éomer would deem her good enough to marry, seeing as we are just lowly humans in this world, and not of noble blood. It's not meant as an insult, darling, so don't get up in arms about my demeaning myself. Georgia and I _are_ given reasonably high status as one of the company from Rivendell, but the Rohirrim are so suspicious—oh, I'm not sure. I shouldn't be surprised for Georgia's sake, though—if anyone could win over that grouchy horse-lord it's her! She's beautiful and witty and charming all the way through. Kind, too. I'm very, very happy for her, if she loves him, but at the same time I am shocked. Still," she smiled, "if I was so fortunate as to win your love, why shouldn't Georgia succeed with Éomer? They are both of mortalkind. I foresee no real difficulties."

 _…you just put your foot in your mouth, though._

As she spoke those final words, Elanor felt Glorfindel tense. The arm about her was no longer comforting, but wooden, and she wished she had not uttered the thoughtless words.

 _I won't be that girl that keeps bringing up issues and harping on about them. He doesn't deserve that. If anyone should be surprised, it's that Glorfindel and I ended up together—not Georgia and Éomer!_

"Anyway, it was lovely to see her again. We had an excellent girl-talk—" Elanor felt her husband relax a modicum "—and I'll be quite satisfied now to stay out here as long as you like, and go back at our leisure. Did you enjoy your visit with Erestor?"

"It gladdened my heart to speak with him again," Glorfindel admitted. Elanor noted with relief that, as she spoke, he had relaxed fully, her faux pas put aside. "He informed me of the happenings of my kindred, and I am now also ready to enjoy the remainder of my honeymoon."

"Excellent," said his wife. "And when we are done, there is the Shire to visit, and Georgia's wedding to attend! I daresay we shall be quite busy over the next few months. Shall we have any time to relax, do you think?"

"Do not trouble yourself—the Shire shall not disappear whilst we linger a little longer, El. We shall attend to your sister's wedding, and look upon the land of the peredhel in the year to come."

Elanor nodded slowly. The following year would be 3021 of the Third Age—the last year before the coming of the Fourth Age, and the year in which Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, and Bilbo departed for Valinor. She longed to visit Hobbiton before that date, for much would have changed about the scenario. Frodo had died before the quest reached Rivendell, and likely Sam would take his place on the ship for the Undying Lands.

 _And what then?_

She shivered slightly despite the warm night and Glorfindel's nearness.

"Do you desire a blanket, meleth nin?"

Elanor smiled up at him in the most reassuring way she could manage. "No thank you, I'm quite all right. Just an odd chill."

Glorfindel seemed partially satisfied by this, and contented himself with pulling her slightly closer to absorb his body heat.

 _Well, I guess we'll find out in a year. In the meanwhile, I'll enjoy everyone's company as much as I can. Elladan and Elrohir might stay in Middle-earth after Ada goes back, and Legolas and Gimli certainly do…_

 _They shan't all desert you. But what will you do when all of them—even Gimli—sail west? Will you make Glorfindel remain behind with you if you are not permitted—or release him?_

Elanor barely suppressed a second shiver as she glanced across at her new spouse. Glorfindel's long legs were stretched out, outstripping her own by a significant margin. Every part of him was lean and well-formed. His right arm was wrapped around her back, whilst his left arched over to grasp one of her hands, resting on his thigh. In the firelight she could see his golden hair glinting like burnished copper beneath a red lamp. His profile was indistinct in the flickering light, but Elanor knew it almost as well as the back of her own hands. He was beautiful, every part of him, and best of all his spirit. She had come to love him well, and it appeared that any path they chose was fraught with sadness.

 _Either we both go to Valinor, or it's going to end badly—I might convince him to go without me, but I feel as if that would be almost as painful as his remaining behind. I suppose he could go to Valinor after I die… but can I really stay married to a man who is going to look this… perfect, forever? I will get old and grey and wrinkled and ugly, and he will be a miniature god!_

 _Now, I believe_ , chipped in her cynic, _is the time one prays._

 _Thanks._

 _Sarcastic today?_

 _No—genuine. Thank you._

* * *

 **Welcome back to a long-awaited 46th instalment of Elanor's tale!**

 **I promise that this story is coming to a conclusion; I do have to wrap up the final pieces, though. I feel like this creation is very messy, and that there are many things I want to change now that I'm getting close to the end. However, I have decided to wrap it up as best I can and leave it be. There are many, many faults with Elanor's tale, but I hope you can overlook them and enjoy laughing along with her.**

 **There will be a few more chapters to come - Elanor's fate must be resolved, and (naturally) I want you to have some "epilogue" moments. The big happy marriage has been achieved, and you can't avoid the cute factor. :3**

 **I hope you're all still enjoying watching Elanor blunder about, anyway. Thanks for sticking with me thus far, and fingers crossed the 47th instalment won't be too long to wait for.**

 **All my love, Finwe.**


	47. News

**Chapter 47 - News**

* * *

October 27th, 3020

Elanor pulled her shawl tighter and walked briskly down the path. It was unseasonably cold for a Rivendell autumn, and movement served to warm her blood somewhat. Besides that, she was possessed with a restless nervousness which would never have allowed her to sit down for a prolonged period, even had she wished to.

 _Surely not… surely not so soon…_

She turned off one of the main thoroughfares and plunged into a semi-overgrown laneway. The shrubs were a vibrant mix of evergreens and deciduous varieties, and the dark emerald contrasted pleasantly with a burning orange. Attempting to distract herself, Elanor brushed the leaves with her fingers. Whatever the season, Rivendell was gloriously beautiful.

Several metres ahead of her, the narrow path ended in a graveled circle. There was a stone bench there, and Elanor sat rather reluctantly.

 _Why are you so surprised, Elanor?_

She sighed.

It was over four months since she and Glorfindel had married; four lovely months in Rivendell, among friends who seemed predisposed to enjoy themselves as much as they could manage. Elladan and Elrohir were carefree and joyous, whilst Legolas and Glorfindel entered into their schemes with scarcely less enthusiasm. Elanor had found herself swept into a course of happy days which surpassed any of her other stretches of joy in Middle-earth. Not only that, but it was now a full two years since she had appeared in the wilds of Cardolan.

Still, this was nothing to her present difficulty.

She shuffled uncomfortably on the stone bench and willed her body to be warmer beneath the thick shawl.

 _In four months, though?_

Elanor sighed again and glanced down at her midsection. She supposed it oughtn't to have been such a surprise, with a complete lack of contraception in Arda. Nevertheless, her growing suspicion as the weeks passed had also carried an element of unease. It was now three months since she had first noticed something unusual—and the certainty that she was with child was mounting.

 _This wasn't exactly the scenario you might have imagined growing up, now was it?_

 _Well… no. I imagined hospitals and doctors and reliable pregnancy tests. I also didn't imagine the difficulty of a child whose mother is human and whose father is immortal Elf-kind!_

A gust of chilly wind caused her to shiver as she sat.

 _You're almost positive that's what it is now, though, aren't you?_

 _…you could say that, yes._

 _So why haven't you told Glorfindel?_

Yet another hard question. Elanor brushed a strand of hair out of her face and frowned slightly. Grasping at a momentary distraction, she plucked at a curl and studied the ends. A week ago, she'd demanded a haircut, and surprised herself by having Indilwen cut it off just below her shoulders. Something about the medium length made her feel lighter, and more herself. The long Elven-like hair was admirable, but she'd found it to be tiresome after her old-world bob. More than that, her mere human hair had begun to grow coarse and split, so she'd hacked two feet off it before she could second-guess the decision.

 _Are you done stalling now?_

Elanor scowled.

 _So I haven't told Glorfindel. Somehow, I doubt that having a half-Elven child is going to make anything easier. We haven't even gone_ near _the issue of our future since the wedding. What's a child going to do to that whole mix?_

It was a conundrum.

Part of Elanor was relieved, at the idea that she should have a child by the merry, golden-haired Elf with the quick wit and understanding eyes. The other mourned pre-emptively for that child, knowing the fates of the half-Elven and kicking herself for having allowed such a situation to occur. Added to this were a number of significant concerns as to the health and well-being of both herself and her unborn child with an impending journey south for Georgia's wedding. Certainly, Elrond was a capable physician; but could Elven medicine really be compared to the modern technologies of her home-world?

 _And, as if things needed more complication, this whole thing merely makes me think more about Mum and Dad back home—two-year anniversary and all, plus the idea that they're getting a grandchild they'll never know about or meet._

Truthfully, the whole mess felt too much for Elanor to manage. She leaned her head in her hands.

 _Goodness, Eru, if I ever needed help, now would be the time,_ she prayed fervently. _I… I don't want to wish this child away, because it's been formed and it's alive and I can already feel myself loving it. But somehow I wish the circumstances were easier; that I knew what would happen between Glorfindel and I, and that I knew it would be safe, and that I could thoroughly enjoy it without the lingering fear… If you ever felt inclined to intervene and do something… now would be the time._

* * *

Glorfindel tugged off his second boot and stood upright.

The room in which he stood was a lofty chamber which encompassed two different levels, separated by three, broad steps. The higher held a comfortable bed with a rich canopy and various other items of furniture. The lower was filled by several armchairs, and a warm fireplace. A door near the fireplace led to a bathroom. His favourite feature by a significant margin, however, were the windows which stretched floor to ceiling along the northern wall; they looked out over a particularly beautiful part of the gardens, where bloomed many flowers in spring. Despite the early onset of cooler weather, the plants had lost none of their beauty. If Glorfindel loved them best when they were pockets of colour, there was still something magnificent in the display as trees were uncloaked. Autumn leaves carpeted the lawns, whilst the full beauty of the delicate branches were displayed in the bare trees.

The Elf's keen eyes were fixated on one particular spot at that moment; a lonely part of the garden, whereupon he could see a slim figure pacing. She wore a long white gown, and had a thick russet shawl tucked about herself. The wind was buffeting at her, and still she paced. Glorfindel's blue eyes were lit with gentle pleasure as he watched her. Even for one with such sharp eyesight, he could not make out her face. Still, he would have felt confident in guessing that her countenance was pensive.

"She really ought not to be out in such foul weather," he murmured to himself, half-absently. As if in response to the remark, Elanor abandoned her pacing and strode towards the house with surprising energy. Feeling somewhat smug, Glorfindel left his vantage point and stepped off the upper sleeping platform. The fire had been lit in the small grate in the lower half of the room, and he settled himself in a chair opposite it's crackling warmth. Not five minutes later, the door to their chambers opened, and Elanor slipped inside.

"I had hoped you should not linger in the cold, El," Glorfindel remarked, turning in his chair and smiling. His wife looked wind-blown and a little chilly, but otherwise unharmed. "Come, and sit by the fire."

Disentangling herself from the shawl, Elanor obliged him. As she passed around his arm chair, she brushed his shoulder gently with one hand. Before he could protest, she sat down upon the floor near his feet and leaned her head against his knee.

"Are you well, meleth nin?"

"Quite," she replied, leaning back against the armchair and relaxing. "Though it was rather unpleasant outdoors."

"Mm," her husband agreed, one hand coming to rest upon her soft golden head. It was unusual to see her with relatively-short hair after all this time, though he found he had come to like the shorter tresses. They were now a similar length to his own, though a darker gold and exceedingly curly. To his delight, the change had merely caused them to grow in softness. He wrapped his finger around a gentle wave and smiled down at her, unseen.

"Glorfindel?"

"Yes, Sunstar?"

There was a slight pause, and then all in a rush, "How do you feel about becoming a parent?"

Glorfindel stopped, utterly dumbstruck. His hand paused in stroking her head.

 _Does she mean…?_

"Elanor—"

She sat up upon her knees and turned to face him. One of her hands moved to rest on his arm. Sea-green eyes beseeched him for a response.

"Are—"

"I'm pregnant, yes. Expecting a child." Her face was lined with fear. He needed to say something—

A broad grin split his face. Rising, he seized her with both arms and spun her into the air. Pure joy flooded him, pulsing through his veins till his hands felt as if they tingled with energy. He laughed, loud and delighted, before placing Elanor gently upon the ground. Seizing her shoulders he kissed her, deep and thoroughly. She pulled away slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"You're pleased, then?"

"Pleased!" cried Glorfindel, moving back and pressing one hand to her cheek. Words failed him for a moment, and his voice broke as he uttered, "Elanor!"

She hugged him tight about the neck then, standing on her tiptoes. Glorfindel wrapped his arms around her waist. He could feel her heart thudding in her ribcage. _Thud-thud_. She was warm, and soft, and smelled of the fresh air which rushed into the Valley of Imladris.

 _And she is carrying your child._

Glorfindel held her until she released her grasp on his neck. Looking up at him in some concern, she sighed.

"Are you certain that this is what you want?"

For a second, he was flooded with utter shock.

"Elanor—it is a child. Our child." Seeing as this did little to explain the matter, he drew her to the chair.

 _Do humans regard their young differently to how I supposed…?_

Seating himself, Glorfindel drew her down beside him. By rights, the chair was made for one person, but he often tucked the slim woman under his arm in this fashion. He loved her nearness.

"Elanor, why should you think that a child would be unwanted?"

The question seemed to sink deep within her, and she did not reply for a full minute. Finally, she gave a small shrug.

"The future is uncertain, meleth."

"The future shall ever be so, El, until Ilúvatar may grant us foresight," Glorfindel smiled, before growing more gentle. "Have I never explained to you the value of children to the Eldar, dearest?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "No."

"To an Elf, a child is a wondrous gift. Our span is endless, yet we bear few children. War has deprived many of family and love. Not all of the Eldar are blessed in discovering one who reciprocates their affection and fewer still grace the world with many Elflings. This child—" He wavered, before reaching out a tentative hand and placing it on Elanor's stomach. She was still as slim as ever, yet it was wondrous to consider that beneath her flesh was a baby. A child. His child.

"We consider children to be the single greatest gift of the Creator."

"Hmm," Elanor murmured. "I can't imagine _not_ wanting a child, though we don't look on the matter quite like that. As nice as babies are, they're fairly common especially at home. We have good medicine and very few babies die."

Glorfindel's brow lowered in a thoughtful frown. "Babies die?"

"Do you not sometimes lose Elven babies to death?"

Glorfindel shook his head emphatically. "It has been known for a mother to pass to the Halls of Mandos in the bearing of a child, though more oft than not this is due to the loss of her spirit than illness. The Elves have been instructed in the medicinal arts since the Elder Days."

Elanor's slim frame relaxed palpably as she sighed. He glanced down at her.

"Do you fear it, Elanor?"

After a moment, she nodded slowly.

Glorfindel's arm tightened reflexively about her shoulder, whilst his other arm moved across Elanor's stomach to pull her against him.

"There is no need for any concern to trouble you," he whispered against her sweet-smelling hair. "Elrond is a skilled healer; no harm shall come to you whilst you are in his care. And," he added, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose as she glanced up at him, " _I_ shall let no harm come to you."

Elanor's eyes welled up before she could glance away. She buried her face into his shoulder.

"Sorry," came a mumbled utterance.

"Pray, do not apologise!" Glorfindel cried. "I would know of aught that troubles you." He looked at her in sudden concern. "Elanor, I ask that you answer truthfully—do you want this baby?"

" _Yes_ ," she said, almost fiercely, withdrawing from the comfort of his sleeve. Then, more softly, "It's your baby. Ours."

A broad grin split Glorfindel's face, unseen by his wife.

"And yet you are uneasy?"

"A little," Elanor admitted. "I—I suppose it raises many questions. Our child will be half-Elf, half-human, and that in itself is rather unusual. It frightens me," she said, in a small voice. When he did not reply, she rubbed her cheek against his tunic sleeve. "Glorfindel?"

"Yes, meleth; I confess such thoughts have crossed my mind."

"And?"

"All I know is that I cannot give you up. I will not. Nor shall I ever abandon this child, for the lands of the Valar or otherwise. Dispel such thoughts from you mind, my Elanor!"

At the conclusion of this short pronouncement, Elanor sat up abruptly. Turning so she faced him upon the chair, she cupped his face with both hands and leaned in to speak against his lips.

"Do you know how much I needed to hear that?" she said, very low.

* * *

"So; what do we do?" Elanor inquired, sometime later. The two were standing in front of the window looking out upon the gardens. Both of Elanor's arms were wrapped around her husband's waist, and he had her soft head tucked into his chest.

"There are many things we must do," Glorfindel chuckled, his chest vibrating pleasantly against Elanor's ear, "though not all of them are of great import. First, I believe, however, we must speak of things to Lord Elrond. I believe he shall offer good counsel, and he shall be responsible for much of your care in the coming months."

Elanor smiled to herself. It was certainly reassuring to consider that her foster-father was capable of caring for her unborn child. The majority of Middle-earth certainly did not seem an advertisement for good medicinal practices.

"And Georgia's wedding?" she inquired.

"When is it to be?"

"Next December. There must be at least a year's betrothal before they marry."

"Do you know of when the baby shall arrive?"

"The end of April."

"I suppose there is naught to be achieved through preemptive concern, though it could pose some difficulties with travel. Nevertheless, there is no need for you to over-exert yourself in the meanwhile, and I am certain you shall be able to discuss the matter with Georgia."

"No, not really," Elanor exhaled softly. "It's a pity that they can't be married here…"

"I imagine that Lord Éomer would have little enjoyment in wedding Lady Georgia in a haven of the Elves," chuckled Glorfindel. "Though he took a great fancy to Lady Arwen. If any good hath come from the War of the Ring, it may be that the suspicion between the peoples of Middle-earth hath lessened."

"Aragorn and Arwen also got married," his wife smiled softly. "And I got you back."

"Not an entirely morbid affair then, my Elanor."

"No indeed." She snuggled her head against his tunic. As usual, he smelt of pine trees and fresh air. "You are a very comforting person. There really isn't anything we can do except weather the winter months."

"And welcome a little Elanor to the Last Homely House," murmured Glorfindel, inclining his head so he could kiss her hair.

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow at him. "How do we know it shan't be a little _you_?"

He twinkled at her. "The Valar should never condemn the world to such a fate for a third time!"

* * *

Balmier days had returned to Imladris for a brief time; despite the onset of November, slightly milder weather blessed the valley with sunshine and reasonably-pleasant temperatures. This particular day, a small pavilion had been erected on a grassy lawn near the Last Homely House. Within the pavilion was a large seat, spread liberally with cushions and rugs, holding two young women. Both of their eyes were diverted by the activities occurring on the lawn at that time.

Upon the grass stood a knot of tall, lithe figures—and one sturdy man of less than five feet. At this particular point, the Dwarf was accompanied by two of the Elves. All three stood aside whilst two others were busily engaged in a ferocious sparring session.

Elanor's mouth was quirked in a gentle smile as she and Georgia observed. Gold hair mingled with dark brown as Legolas and Glorfindel whirled in a swift dance with wooden practice swords.

"They're very good," murmured Georgia, leaning forward in her seat with her lips parted in admiration.

Elanor glanced at her with a grin. "Don't let Éomer hear you admiring other men so liberally!"

"Well, one is already married to my sister," Georgia replied, pragmatically. "And the other has almost been adopted as a cousin into the family. I think I'm fairly safe. Now, watch your husband and cross all your fingers he manages to best the Prince of Mirkwood!"

Elanor turned her attention back to the sparring. This was not the first bout of the afternoon; Legolas and Glorfindel had already clashed twice, both encounters falling in favour of the latter. She could not help being proud that her tall husband with his cat-like grace and athleticism had come out on top—as much as she liked the blue-eyed, merry Legolas. Even Elladan and Elrohir had been unable to beat the golden-haired Noldorin—their childhood tutor in many aspects of weaponcraft.

The swords that Glorfindel and Legolas used were the length and approximate weight of two-handed broadswords. Legolas was attempting to wear down his partner's guard using a series of looping cuts. He swung from left to right, wrists rotating with supple grace as he flung himself at the other Elf.

Glorfindel moved with near-lightning swiftness. Legolas twisted his fake blade round in a small circle, thrusting forward. Glorfindel parried it aside with ease. Twirling about, his opponent spun in a full circle whilst Glorfindel was still following his momentum forwards. Grasping the hilt with both hands, Legolas directed a devastating blow at Glorfindel's exposed side. Unconsciously, Elanor stiffened and leaned forward.

As if moving pre-emptively, Glorfindel swayed backwards and to one side. He seemed to bend over, his knees virtually at a right angle and his body parallel to the ground and balancing himself on one arm. To Elanor it seemed as if he were attempting a slightly lop-sided back-bend. Legolas' sword cut through the air above him, where mere seconds ago he had stood. As the Silvan Elf followed through with the vicious slice, Glorfindel sprang to his feet, pushing off his left hand. Before Legolas could right himself, the other's sword hovered point-first against his back.

Elanor exhaled, not having realized she held her breath.

Legolas, glancing over his shoulder, grinned as he discovered the bout's conclusion.

"And I, hoping to best you at last, mellon-nin!" he cried, perfectly cheerful as he executed a short bow and breathed deep to still his panting. "You are a formidable opponent. I could never have foreseen such a move on your part, friend Glorfindel."

The latter grinned broadly, also breathing harder than normal. "I have been saving it for such an occasion as this! I could not allow my record to become tarnished."

The twins and Gimli joined them then, adding to the laughter.

"Coming?" Elanor inquired, turning to her sister as she rose from her chair in the pavilion.

"Yes."

The two women strode across the grass swiftly. Elanor adjusted a shawl as she went, finding she was sensitive to the weather, even though it could hardly be considered cold.

Glorfindel grinned over Gimli's head at her as the two Ravenscroft girls approached. Elanor moved to his side, and he placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

"Laugh away, Elanor Elrondiel," said Legolas, smiling. "You share the success of your beloved, I see it in your eyes."

"Naturally," replied she, modestly. "I know well enough what kind of opponent you are, Legolas! Did you not tutor me for some weeks?"

"To no avail, apparently!" Legolas returned, wherein Elanor laughed heartily and met his eyes in a knowing look. Her marriage to Glorfindel had not altered the brotherly camaraderie that she shared with Thranduil's son. Legolas, truthfully, found great joy in observing the newlyweds, considering that he had foreseen such a development long before even the lovers themselves. He and Gimli had entered into the running of Rivendell with enthusiasm. The Elf's bright blue eyes were ever alight with pleasure and interest. His dark head was often to be seen walking in company with both the twins and Glorfindel, and he had devoted a good measure of his time to Elanor. No longer did they spar—she had never regained an interest in the activity—but she still went for gentle horseback rides and played chess. It was refreshing, and reminded Elanor of the days before the Fellowship had departed.

Coming back to her present surroundings, Elanor glanced between the cheery faces. Elladan and Elrohir were engaged in a good-natured argument, into which Georgia was entering admirably. The others laughed, and she smiled in response at their exuberance.

At that moment, Elanor felt a queer fluttering in her stomach. The sensation repeated itself, until she realized with a start that it was not merely a disgruntled digestive system. The third time, the feeling was so distinct that she squeezed Glorfindel's arm to prevent herself laughing aloud.

 _I can tell you're there, little one_. _And in five months' time, it shall be very nice indeed to meet you!_

* * *

 **There is Chapter 47 - and not too long after 46, so we have obviously improved in *that* regard!**

 **It's rather bittersweet drawing to the conclusion of Elanor's story... though I always felt like offspring was part of it. ^_^ It's nostalgic but also rather nice to be wrapping up Elanor's time in Middle-earth.**

 **Anyhowwww...**

 **QUESTION OF THE DAY: Do you think Elanor and Glorfindel's baby will be male or female? And, depending on your guess... what would you name the baby? Keen to hear your suggestions!**

 **Many thanks, Finwe. x**


	48. Rose

**Chapter 48 - Rose.**

* * *

 _30_ _th_ _April, 3021._

Rivendell was alight with candles.

It was the wee hours of the morning, long after midnight yet before the sun had come to grace the Valley of Imladris. One wing of the Last Homely House blazed like a beacon. Every window was lit with the flickering light of Elven candles. If one were to observe, one might see silhouettes flitting back and forth before the windows. There were many figures contained therein, and their movements swift and busy.

Still, the house was chiefly silent. If any noise were to be heard, it was only to be the quiet voices of Elves in close discussion. The Sindarin words were neither sharp nor piercing, and did not travel far. However, the presence of the lights were in themselves an oddity. Elves did not require the sleep of humankind; yet, though they were oft awake at this hour, Rivendell maintained an air of serenity and silence in ordinary circumstances.

At that point, a groan could be heard carrying across the empty night. It was moan of a woman in some distress, and following it's cry the movement of the silhouettes quickened. Another sound followed it some short while later, and yet another. The cries grew in intensity and volume, though they would not have seemed over-loud save that no other sound arose to compete with them.

The wing from which the light and sound issued was occupied by the permanent residents of the Last Homely House. Few save Elrond Eärendilion's family lingered in those quarters ordinarily. Tonight, one might spy a multitude of fresh faces in passing. Most of these individuals had no real purpose; rather, they fluttered about, performing odd jobs to occupy their hands whilst wearing plaintive expressions. Soft Elvish voices drifted about the hallway at the entrance to the wing. If one were permitted to pass by unhindered, one might discover that the activity lessened considerably towards the other end of the wing.

The source of the woman's sorrowful noises appeared to issue from an unassuming door some distance along the main corridor. Outside lingered a small cluster of figures; two dark young men, so alike in stature and features that few could distinguish them, an equally sable-haired Elf, and a girl of small stature.

The latter leaned against the stone wall.

"Gosh, I hope it's over soon," she sighed, rubbing her cheek. "This is exhausting."

"I feel as if Elanor might agree with you," put in one of the twins, with a wry grin.

Georgia, turning to study his face, smiled back. "Probably, Elladan."

The twins surveyed her with unfeigned amazement. "And how," inquired the other, "do you manage to distinguish us so, Lady Georgia?"

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Elladan is most likely to crack a joke like that."

All three Elves broke into laughter at that, and the fourth member of the small contingent grinned with additional exuberance. He met Georgia's hazel eyes with a twinkle, for Erestor observed something that the twins did not; a tiny fragment of red ribbon pinned to the back of Elladan's arm.

"Still, this has been going on for hours," Georgia continued, letting her back slide down the wall till she sat on the floor.

"I believe that is the way of childbirth for humankind," shrugged Elrohir, joining her on the floor.

"I think so," the young woman agreed, "though I never had to actually _wait_ for a baby to born. Normally I just hear about the baby later and go and snuggle it."

"Rest easy, Ruinë," replied Erestor, calmly. "Master Elrond and his healers shall manage your sister with great skill and care."

Georgia wrinkled her nose at him. "I know. And I still wish you'd tell me what Ruinë means. Neither Elanor or Glorfindel will tell me!"

"Perhaps they're a little busy at present," murmured Elrohir, with a twinkle.

The girl directed a withering look in his direction before returning her gaze to the opposite, blank wall.

Most of the household had burst into wakefulness from the moment that Indilwen had knocked on Lord Elrond's door. Five minutes later, the Master of Rivendell had discretely entered Elanor and Glorfindel's chambers. Therein, he found Glorfindel wearing an anguished expression, and Elanor sitting calmly in their shared bed. She had smiled nervously at her foster-father as he joined them, followed by a small retinue of healers. They had swiftly and efficiently overtaken the room, spreading additional sheets on the bed and filling the room with an aroma of Elvish disinfectant. To Elanor, it was a balmy, lemony aroma which helped slow her pounding heart immediately.

Georgia, woken by the sudden increase in traffic in that wing of the house, had scurried into Elanor's room amidst the chaos. She had flown agitatedly between Glorfindel, several business-like healers, and her sister, who wore an expression of mixed joy and fear. After ten minutes, Elrond had calmly requested that all of the additional guests within the room depart. By this point, the superfluous members included Erestor, the twins, Georgia and several servants with an especial soft spot for Elanor. Having been expelled from the birthing room, they had milled about like lost sheep. The servants had dispersed, leaving the quartet to sit and bemoan the wait. Elanor had gone into labour around 11. In Georgia's estimate, it must be close on three in the morning, and they had been sitting desolately in the corridor for hours.

"Why don't we go to Elrond's study," sighed Georgia, at last.

"An excellent notion," nodded Elrohir. "Ada should not mind—and it shall be far warmer there before the fire."

"And far more comfortable," grinned his twin, digging the other in the ribs. "Come—let us go."

The group trooped down to the Master's study. Georgia sighed as they entered. Her lower back and bottom ached dully from sitting on the hard floor, and she was horribly sleepy.

 _At least they can't take photos if I fall asleep on the couch!_

As always, the hearth in Elrond's study was lit with warm, flickering flames. Georgia slipped through the circle of armchairs to warm her hands before it.

"Cold, Ruinë?"

Georgia stuck out a dainty toe to ankle-tap Erestor as he walked past. Unfortunately, such gestures were lost on the agile Elves. He merely nudged her foot back with his own boot-clad toe and raised his eyebrows at her. Accepting defeat, Georgia claimed the largest couch and lay down upon it.

"There is naught to be gained from your remaining awake all the night through, Lady Georgia," remarked Elrohir, taking a chair himself. "It is likely that Elanor shall not bear the child till the morn."

"I want to be awake for it though," said Georgia, firmly, all the while her eyelids drooped uncontrollably.

"Sleep, young Georgia," murmured Elladan, absently.

"We shall wake you ere there is news," added his brother, joining the other three around the fire.

This caused Georgia to smile. She curled up on her left side, trying to ignore the undercurrent of worry which plagued her on Elanor's behalf. Somehow, she felt a great deal more responsible than the exhausted waif who had discovered her sister in Minas Tirith amidst the noblewomen. Since then, she had ventured back across Middle-earth, discovering the love of a rather gruff Rohirric king along the way, and found herself anxiously anticipating the birth of her nephew or niece.

 _Who would've thought_ , came the sleepy voice.

 _Mmm…_

As challenging as the relocation to Middle-earth had been, Georgia found herself supremely content as she drifted towards sleep on Elrond's couch. Much had changed since the day both she and Elanor had disappeared. The younger Ravenscroft girl had never felt so thankful as that morning on Elanor's wedding day when they had cleared the air between them. She had always loved Elanor, despite bridling at her persistent mothering in past years. Still, there was a great deal that was alike about the pair of young women, and it was like a warm buzz in Georgia's stomach to think of the precious memories they now shared.

 _And soon, a little mini Elanor-and-Glorfindel hybrid to snuggle…_

 _That'll be nice… I hope he looks like El…_

 _Mm…_

* * *

"You have a daughter."

Tears mingled with sweat on Elanor's face. Her vision was blurred and she could scarcely see the faces leaning over her. Half a moment later, however, a squirming, shrieking bundle was placed upon her chest. Blinking rapidly, she willed her arms to pull tight the little individual who had been inside her mere minutes before.

Glorfindel's face neared hers and planted a soft kiss on her damp cheek. His mouth worked as if he meant to say something, before he subsided in a chair beside her bed. One hand rested on her shoulder as Elanor glanced back down at her child.

Everything in her body hurt. She had no idea what time it was, nor how long her labour had extended. All she was aware of was the intense pain of pushing out a child—and the utter miracle which she held.

Desperate to see her baby, she shuffled slightly and readjusted the tiny creature's position on her chest. Her baby was still wailing softly, but as Elanor turned her upright she quietened. Cradling her on one arm, she stared into the face of her firstborn daughter—and was flooded with unadulterated joy.

Elanor had never seen anything so perfect.

The tiny girl was curled up with her miniscule hands near her face. She was rather red, but otherwise unblemished and utterly beautiful. Elanor's chest was tight with emotion as her fingers travelled along the tiny body. She had a small, straight noise, and thick dark lashes. Her head appeared bald, though Elanor convinced herself that it was coated with a fine layer of golden fuzz. Her face were smooth and her cheekbones high. At that moment, the tiny girl gave another squeal—and opened her eyes in protest. They were a deep, dark blue.

"She looks like you," Elanor murmured, when her voice returned, glancing to her husband. Glorfindel appeared not to hear her, so enraptured was he by their baby. He drew his gaze away for a moment, turning the sky-blue eyes to Elanor.

"I was about to say the same of you, meleth."

Elanor smiled tearily, tracing her daughter's cheek again.

"You should hold her," she whispered.

Glorfindel leaned forward and gently took his child from his wife's arms. He lifted her with utmost care, pulling her towards his body like she were more precious than the finest jewels. Elanor watched as he looked down at her baby— _their baby—_ and her joy was complete.

"She is beautiful," Glorfindel mumbled, in Sindarin.

Elanor smiled wearily and closed her eyes, lying back on the cushions.

 _I cannot imagine being happier…_

Added to her agony was an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. She could sense several of the Elvish healers moving about her. Part of her was dimly mortified about the fact that they were tending to her medical needs as they lay there. Having her body bared to the world was hardly a dignified experience. Rather than dwell on it, she did her best to ignore the sensation and opened her eyes to see her small family. Glorfindel was besotted with the tiny baby in his arms. With that image fresh in her memory, Elanor closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.

* * *

Glorfindel breathed slowly to steady his thudding heart.

The bundle in his arms was almost weightless. She was swaddled in fresh blankets, and had been bathed in a sweet-smelling soap which wafted delightfully towards his nostrils.

The disbelief and amazement which filled his being could not be articulated in words. Ever since the moment that Lord Elrond's healers had announced the arrival of his tiny daughter, he had struggled in vain for words. Now, some two hours after the baby's delivery, he still grappled with the powerful emotions which saturated him.

No one had yet been permitted to disturb the new, small family. Lord Elrond had departed a little time before, perfectly satisfied with Elanor and her child's condition. Glorfindel had watched his master's broad grin as he swept out.

Glorfindel ambled slowly towards the windows of their chambers, bouncing slightly to soothe the baby. Outside, the sun was beginning to set; Elanor's labour had been upwards of twelve hours. For now, she slept, and would continue to sleep until the baby required feeding. Turning, he continued his circuit of the room, this time drawing near to Elanor's bedside.

His slender wife lay curled up to one side. She was pale, and her golden hair curled in damp ringlets about her forehead. After resting a little, she had insisted on a bath, and now smelled as pleasant as her small daughter. To Glorfindel, Elanor appeared immensely childlike. Her form was shrunken without the child in her womb, and her naturally-slim hands were curled near her face.

 _She is beautiful. They both are._

The loss of Idril had caused a certain aspect of Glorfindel to withdraw, even after his return from the Halls of Mandos. It was, to the Eldar, unthinkable that one might love twice in one's span. Nevertheless, Glorfindel had admittedly lived twice—and found in the waning of the Third Age of Middle-earth the greatest joy his heart could contain. That had merely been doubled at the birth of his child; she was, in herself, an utter delight, but he was filled with elation that she was also Elanor's baby. As much as his wife insisted that she looked like Glorfindel, he was certain that the Valar had heard his plea that the child should bear resemblance to her mother.

He smiled.

"You look so happy I hate to disturb you," came a raspy voice.

He whirled as fast as he dared with the precious bundle. Elanor was sitting up in bed, smiling in unreserved bliss.

"As do you, young mother."

Elanor burst into laughter. "Oh, hush. You'll make me feel horribly old."

"Old? Never." He settled himself into a chair next to her bed, after placing her daughter in her arms. "She might need food soon."

"We ought to name her," Elanor crooned, looking down at the perfect face before her.

"I have been pondering on such matters," grinned her husband, "and I have several alternatives to present to you. Are you ready, lady-wife?"

"Yes," she smiled, brushing the child's face with her thumb. Glorfindel couldn't help but grin again. His wife's unsophisticated fascination with their baby was his greatest pleasure.

"Seeing as the baby's lovely mother is named after a flower," he said, in his gentle Sindarin, "I have followed this theme. Thus I present to you—Alfirineth."

"Meaning?"

"It is the Elvish name for a flower, the Good Pirin. It is a flower which opens and closes with the day and night."

"It's pretty," his wife replied, noncommittally. "Any others?"

"Nínimeth—'snowdrop'. Also Lassel, meaning 'leaf', and Gilorneth, or 'star tree'."

"I like them all—though none of them resonates with me as much as I had hoped. Any others?"

"Only one—Merileth."

Elanor repeated it, as if to taste the name on her tongue. "Merlieth. What does it mean?"

"Rose."

She frowned thoughtfully. "Somehow, it feels rather too refined and lofty for a baby. Still," she smiled, "she has an Elf for a father, and I suppose she shall surpass all others in beauty as she grows to womanhood. Do you like it?"

Glorfindel looked a little sheepish. "I held it for last, as I hoped you might choose it over the others. Good evening, then, little Merileth."

For a few minutes they sat in silence, both rapt in the tiny baby. Elanor reached out with one hand to grasp Glorfindel's fingers, which rested on her shoulder.

"Darling, might I ask you something?"

"You may ask whatever you desire, vána."

"I realise it's a rather large question, especially as we are in Middle-earth—but I thought that maybe she ought to have a second name, too."

Glorfindel nodded eagerly. "Would you choose one of the others?"

Elanor looked down and flushed pink.

"I had—rather hoped—I mean, could—could we pick a name from my world? Nothing over the top, I know, don't worry—oh, we don't have to, it was just an idea. Don't—"

Glorfindel's face flushed with shame.

 _Oh! How thoughtless a creature must she think me, to neglect so shamefully the world from which she hails!_

"Elanor—of course."

"Oh," she cried, concerned. "I've upset you! I am so sorry. We don't have to do it, not at all! Forget I mentioned it." She punctuated this with a smile of such genuine goodwill that he was reminded poignantly of the reason he had wedded her. There was no malice or hidden resentment in her glance. Glorfindel knew that if he protested, she would settle on an Elvish name with as much pleasure as something from her own lands. That, in itself, made him long to hold her all the more.

"No—I think it a beautiful idea. She is as much your daughter as mine, nor is she merely a product of Middle-earth. It would bring me joy to know she bears a name which honours her mother."

Elanor smiled. "How do you like Katharine?"

* * *

"Oh, _El_ , she's an absolute—oh, there's nothing to describe a newborn baby," sighed Georgia, her face alight. "Oh!"

Elanor grinned at her sister's wordless exclamations. It was the following morning. With Elrond's consent, she had graduated to an armchair from the bed. As Indilwen had departed with their breakfast trays, a flood of visitors had slipped inside. Foremost amongst them had been Georgia, Elladan and Elrohir. The former had run immediately to her sister's bedside, whisked Merileth from her small bassinet, and fallen to cooing over her unceasingly. The twins had turned to the proud father, congratulating him in Quenyan and making jokes which were utterly unintelligible to the women of the room.

Elanor found herself watching both parties with equal pleasure. After a short while, Elladan broke away from the group and demanded Georgia relinquish his niece. She did so, reluctantly, and moved to sit by Elanor.

"How are you doing, sis?" she inquired, squeezing her hand.

Elanor nodded. "I'm well. Really well. It was painful and awful—giving birth, that is—but little Merry is worth it."

"Merry?" Georgia laughed. "Won't you get her confused with our hobbity friend?"

"Never," came the firm reply. "Did Glorfindel tell you her full name?"

"No?"

"Merileth Katharine."

Georgia's hazel eyes widened. "Katharine? As in, K-A-T-H-A-R-I-N-E Katharine?"

Her sister nodded again.

The younger flung herself on Elanor, pulling her into a tight embrace. They held each other wordlessly for a time, before Georgia withdrew and rubbed what looked suspiciously like tears from her face.

"You—you named her after Mum."

Elanor found that she also struggled with tears. "I did."

* * *

 **Chapter 48 has come much more swiftly than I anticipated. I simply couldn't stay away - especially as I can confirm that there are only TWO MORE CHAPTERS before Elanor's story wraps up! I realise how close that is - but soon you will know Elanor's fate in Middle-earth... and we get to finish on a nice round 50.**

 **I have been planning this for some time, and I guess I wanted Elanor and Glorfindel's child to have some kind of special significance to both of their heritages. I thought it would be sweet for her to have a flower-name, like her mother, but I can't imagine that Elanor could forget her heritage and not include something of our world in her child's name. Thus, we have little Merileth Katharine.**

 **It shouldn't be too long before Chapters 49 and 50 are released. I have a firm outline of what they shall look like, and I only hope you will read them with as much interest as their predecessors. Thanks for journeying with me thus far, and I wish you all the best.**

 **\- Finwe.**


	49. The Penultimate Farewell

**Chapter 49 - The Penultimate Farewells**

* * *

 _3_ _rd_ _September, 3021_

When Elanor woke, Glorfindel had already left their bed. She stretched her hand across to feel the sheets where he had lain. Cold.

 _It must still be pretty early…_

She rolled over laboriously until she could see the pale light which flowed in from the windows. The sun would just have risen in the highlands above the Last Homely House, and only the faintest of light filtered down into the silent land of Elrond Peredhel.

The weather still held the sublime warmth of summer. Elanor slipped gladly from the bedsheets and padded across the floor, her nightgown trailing behind her. She moved to the glass panes and pressed her forehead against its coolness.

 _She's leaving today._

 _I know._

 _You're going to miss her wedding._

 _…_ _I know._

Elanor sighed loudly, causing the glass to fog up beneath her breath.

Georgia's wedding, scheduled for the depths of winter, was in some three months' time. Today was the date ordained for her departure to Rohan—and Elanor would not go with her. The thought stirred regret, frustration and bitterness in the latter's heart. It was as if fate conspired to make life as difficult as possible.

 _You could not really go,_ came a surprisingly-soothing comment from her narcissist. _You've got a four-month-old baby, and in less than two months Elrond and the other Elves will depart from Imladris for the Havens. You have to be there for that, Elanor. It's destiny—it's your foster-father's farewell. Time to be with Georgia after the wedding._

She returned to the bed, falling face first upon the mattress with an almighty _whop._

 _Yeah…_

It was all a rather horrible predicament, and with it came a renewed heaviness. Georgia would wed Éomer, tying herself to another mortal and living a joyous—albeit regular—span upon the plains of the Riddermark. For brief moments, Elanor envied her sister and the unruffled happiness which spread before her. Elanor did, admittedly, have Glorfindel; the one she loved unreservedly, who had given her the small daughter they both doted on. He was her delight.

Nevertheless, as she was well aware, their love presented a whole array of problems. Chief amongst these was the Elves' departure from Middle-earth. Had Elanor not been present, she was almost certain that Glorfindel would have returned to Valinor with Elrond, or waited and made the same journey in the company of Elladan and Elrohir. They had chosen the life of the Elves in honour of their ada.

 _But Glorfindel will stay—because of you._

 _…_ _should he?_

 _"_ _All I know is that I cannot give you up. I will not. Nor shall I ever abandon this child, for the lands of the Valar or otherwise. Dispel such thoughts from your mind, my Elanor!"_

Lovely words, yet they filled Elanor with as much pain as joy. Glorfindel would not leave—he would stay, and she knew there was no hope of convincing him otherwise. Little Merileth was merely another reason to tie him to Middle-earth. As they were not of the line of Eärendil and Elwing, Glorfindel and Elanor's offspring would not be offered the choice of heritage. Elrond had explained as much to them after Merileth's birth. She would live an extended span—at least twice what Elanor could expect—but would still be mortal. Thus, Glorfindel would be forced to part with not only his wife, but his child if he were to make the journey to Valinor.

 _Eru—must everything be this hard?_

Elanor rolled over on the bed. There was no point in dwelling on Elrond or her husband—today was Georgia's day of farewell, or, rather, _au revoir._ Elanor was certain it would not be long before she and Glorfindel made another journey south.

Sitting up, she clambered to her feet. It took all of her willpower to detach herself from the future and place her worries into a sealed mental compartment. There was no point worrying prematurely about their fates. What would be, would be. Elrond was wise, and powerful; he would manage something. Till then—she would distract herself.

Elanor moved briskly to the wardrobe. It had not been long after Merileth's birth that she found herself slipping into one of her old gowns. She had not returned precisely to her old size or level of fitness, but after four months of brisk exercise and good air, she had no trouble in lacing herself into the gowns. Brushing through her options, Elanor settled on a dress of sea-foam green of Gondorian cut.

 _I haven't worn this since… well, since Minas Tirith!_

She had just finished the fastenings when she heard the creak of the bedroom door. Closing the wardrobe, she turned hurriedly to see a tall figure entering.

"Glorfindel," she smiled, brushing her hair out of her face. "I saw you had spirited our daughter away!"

The Elf returned her greeting. He was already dressed and readied for the day, having chosen a surcoat of blue which matched his eyes. In his arms rested a bright-eyed baby.

Merileth had grown extensively in her months of exploring Arda. To Elanor's disappointment, she had not developed her father's blue eyes, but rather had the grey-green of her mother. She had a tiny nose, pointed chin, and the promise of blonde hair. She was fair and chubby, much to the delight of her parents and assorted family members.

"Good morning my pretty," crooned Elanor, switching out of Sindarin to the Common Tongue. She had become so comfortable speaking Elvish that it tended to be their preferred language, unless she was with Georgia.

Glorfindel held out little Merry for her mother to take. Elanor grasped her gently. Thus followed a blissful half hour, in which Glorfindel wrapped his arms around both his wife and child and there was a great deal of baby-talk and cooing.

"Have you eaten?" Glorfindel inquired, after a time.

"No," came a rather absent reply. The Elf leaned down so that his lips pressed against Elanor's temple. His breath was warm on her face and he planted a kiss upon her cheek before reluctantly disentangling himself. Half a minute later, Elanor heard the bell tinkle and her husband issue a quiet request.

She turned and relinquished their gurgling daughter to his arms.

"When must we be ready, love?" she inquired, smiling as Glorfindel teased his daughter with a slender finger.

"The tenth hour."

This time, Elanor moved to his side and wrapped her fingers around his taught upper arm.

 _Four hours._

 _Yes. And until then, I will be with my husband and daughter._

* * *

Elanor sighed rather impatiently as she transferred Merileth to Glorfindel's arms.

"Why must she fuss so?" she huffed, staring almost resentfully at the small baby which squirmed and squalled. To add insult to injury, Merileth quietened immediately as her father took her in his deft hands. Faster than a ray of light, her countenance became unwrinkled and broke into beatific smiles.

Glorfindel twinkled down at her and said, "Perhaps she looks upon her ada with favour," to which his wife responded by rolling her eyes. It irked Elanor considerably that her husband was better at coaxing smiles and happy moods out of their daughter.

Reading her face, Glorfindel cradled Merileth with one arm and slipped his free hand into Elanor's.

"I spoke in jest, meleth."

Elanor gave a hard laugh. "Oh, I know, and I am not angry. Just tired, and frustrated—and frustrated _because_ I'm frustrated!" She felt her husband squeeze her fingers.

"You must sleep more; and you shall, after noon. Come, now—the others have begun to gather."

Elanor nodded and allowed herself to be led across the courtyard in which they stood. Various individuals and small groups were milling about there, talking amongst themselves and filling the air with the ring of Elvish laughter. Elanor and Glorfindel, wrestling with a disgruntled Merileth, had retired to one side. Now, as some unobserved signal issued from the opposite end of the courtyard, the fragments of people had begun to congregate in the centre.

"Glorfindel! Elanor!" came a clear cry. Both turned to see a cheery-faced Erestor striding to meet them.

"Well met, friend," Glorfindel replied. Elanor relinquished her grip on his hand and he reached out to clasp Erestor's.

"And small Lady Merileth," beamed Erestor, to which the baby responded with a cheeky smile and a gurgle. "Your daughter is full of spirit, Elanor."

The lady addressed smiled ruefully. "I believe she gets that from her father."

Both of the Elves laughed at this. Further remarks were cut short as another knot of people emerged from the house and descended the stairs to the courtyard. Elrond strode at the head of the party, with Georgia at his left side. Behind them were a group of half a dozen Elves. They were characteristically Noldorin, with sable hair and clear grey eyes. Each face was distinguishable, and yet there was something uniform in the clear-cut jaws, high cheekbones and forthright gazes they all shared. It was something which carried beyond that small contingent to the Elves which surrounded Elanor; even Indilwen and the other female Elves carried the same nobility.

 _And soon, they will all depart over the sea…_

Fortunately, Elanor's train of thought was derailed as Elrond, Georgia and their retinue reached the main body. Someone had produced nine proud Elvish horses, and one powerful bay who was an exemplar of the Rohirric steeds. Elrond turned to the retinue, issuing them some instructions which Elanor did not wait to hear. Brushing Glorfindel's sleeve with her fingers, she hastened forward to where her sister stood.

Georgia was sensibly clad in a long, calf-length tunic, warm undershirt, boots and breeches. As Elanor approached, she was busy checking her girth and readjusting part of her pack. Elanor reached out and laid a gentle hand upon the straight back.

Georgia turned and smiled. It was a watery smile, a smile which bespoke the knowledge of bittersweet partings. She pulled Elanor into a tight embrace.

"I'm going to miss you," Georgia whispered.

"Same here."

The pair released one another, before the younger of the two sisters reached out to grip Elanor's shoulders.

"Promise me a couple of things, ok?" Georgia began, hazel eyes serious.

"Of course."

"Come visit soon. Whenever you can."

Elanor rolled her eyes to disguise the moisture there. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

"Now this second thing is going to seem a bit weird," continued the other, squeezing Elanor's shoulders tighter. "But Elanor Ingrid Ravenscroft—I mean, Goldflower, or whatever—I need to say this, because… well, because I just feel like I need to. I know it's been hard on you, with Glorfindel and all. You do such a good job of hiding it, but I can tell. It's easy for me, going back to Rohan. But don't think that I don't know what you're going through, because I can read it on your face when you get lost in thought."

 _How could I have been so… blind to Georgia? Missed her big heart, her unselfishness, her thoughtfulness—why did we waste so much time?_

"G—"

"Don't say anything, please," said Georgia, her voice softer. "It's been a big up and down journey between the two of us, but I love you, and I know you love me. That's really all that matters, isn't it? So promise me—promise me that you will grab hold of the days with both hands. Promise me that you'll savour what we've got, because we're both so lucky, and that you will enjoy it. Love's enough, El. It's different to home, and it's different to what you might've expected… but back in our old lives, and here as well—we have love." Two large tears rolled down Georgia's brown cheeks. "Please don't forget it, and get lost in wondering what might have been, or even what could be."

 _How did she know…_

After a minute Georgia shrugged and roughly brushed away tears. "Sorry for being so soppy—it's really only a brief goodbye for us, because I know you'll be back to see me."

Elanor nodded slowly, for in her heart she was well aware of that fact. This goodbye was raw and heartfelt and poignant, but she would hold her sister in her arms again. The grey-green eyes strayed across to where Elrond stood in conversation with Lindir.

 _That is the true goodbye._

"I'll try, G," Elanor whispered, after a pause. "It's hard, not to get lost in wishing and hoping, though, when I have so many memories."

Georgia smiled, and through her eyes shone the clear light of one who is at peace. "That's what makes it beautiful—the memories."

For a moment, they merely looked at one another. Tears were spent, wishes wished and love proclaimed; only understanding remained, and the hope of a joyous reunion.

"I'll be delighted to come down and see your new home, Georgie," Elanor said, then, gripping with all her courage to the unforeseen wisdom of her younger sister. "I look forward to being reunited with King Éomer."

"And I believe he looks forward to seeing you again, Elanor, if you can believe it," Georgia teased.

"I dare anyone to bemoan a second meeting with my lady-wife," came a teasing voice, and Glorfindel's figure materialised between the sisters.

"You will find none guilty of such a thing here," came Georgia's swift reply. "Come now, Glorfindel—I'll see you again soon," and she reached out for a hug. "You're my brother, you've got no excuse to stay away."

"Nor shall I."

"And I am simply desperate to see my little niece again soon! Where is she?"

Glorfindel's slim hand pointed to where Elrond cradled the tiny baby. Lindir was still speaking, but it was questionable as to how much the Master of Rivendell absorbed. His clean-cut face was split by a smile as he rocked Merileth back and forth in careful arms.

"I won't tear her away," laughed Georgia. "I'll see you soon."

Then, before Elanor could quite register what was occurring, the gathering parted like the Red Sea to allow the riders to mount. Georgia sprang onto the back of her horse, whilst her Elvish escort followed suit. The pack horses who accompanied them followed obediently without rein or lead, and in less than ten minutes—they were gone.

Elanor took Merileth from her foster-father with a weak smile and followed her husband back to their quarters.

 _Another goodbye, albeit an uneventful one._

 _And another to come, far more painful than the last._

Elanor sighed as she laid Merileth in her crib for her morning nap.

 _Eru help us._

* * *

 _29_ _th_ _September, 3021_

The cool breeze whisked past the collection of riders and palfreys. It was a cheerful, light-footed zephyr which mitigated the heat of the early-autumn sun, tousling hair, cooling faces and whisking cloaks.

Elanor swept a strand of hair from her face which the breeze had coaxed there. It was beautiful weather for riding, and the horses moved at an easy pace. No one desired to rush on this final leg of the journey, Elanor least of all. She sat tall and comfortable on Fundanár's back, an unusually bulky figure with Merileth strapped to her chest. The five-month-old was wide awake and alert, secure to her mother's torso by an elaborate cloth wrapping. Her fair head rested just beneath Elanor's chin, and the sea-green eyes were bright as she surveyed the new land before her.

Elanor was glad for the tiny figure pressed close to her as the horses ambled along the broad road. Merileth's sweet laughter when Fundanár began to trot was sufficient distraction from the swift-approaching conclusion of their journey. The baby had been surprisingly content on the road westward. She had alternated between both parents in the cloth baby-carrier, and spent several days riding in a covered palfrey with either Elanor or Erestor. Today, Elanor was determined she would remain on horseback; she did not feel equal to keeping company on the last few hours.

As if to reinforce that thought, the gentle wind gusted more wildly, bringing with it a renewed tang of salty air.

 _So close now,_ one voice in her head whispered. _So close._

 _Almost three years here, three years of Middle-earth's beauty and majesty; three years of being amongst these people—and now we come to it. Now, we come to this final, horrid farewell that has been hanging over me almost since I first arrived._

 _What a cheerful individual you are._

Elanor ground her teeth to prevent any tears from escaping, and focused on the road ahead. Merileth squirmed eagerly, apparently enamoured with the fresh sea air. The company was moving up a rise now, green grass on either side. The temperate coastal weather left the land as unblemished as an emerald pool-table. Elanor could not help but admire the land which swept down to Mithlond, the Grey Havens.

"How do you fare, Elanor?" called Glorfindel, breaking Elanor from her determined reverie. She turned to face her husband, who approached at a gentle lope on his huge grey horse. Fundanár nickered in greeting as his stable-mate approached.

"I'm fine," she replied, unable to inject her voice with much enthusiasm.

Glorfindel reined in his horse level with Elanor, and looked down at her with concern.

"I meant to refer to your carrying Merileth, my vána; I did not expect you to fare well in any other aspect. We should reach Mithlond in less than an hour."

Elanor nodded mutely, her eyes locked with his.

The final weeks in Rivendell had been both syrup and poison. Georgia's departure was but the beginning of those agonising weeks which far surpassed any other Elanor had had to endure. Even her time waiting in Minas Tirith for the outcome of the War had not filled her with such a persistent dread, for in that time, there had been hope. Now—there was only jaded resignation.

She had known that the time would eventually come for many to depart Middle-earth. It was inevitable that the Elves should go—but always Elanor had hoped for an alternative, always she had dreamt of something different. Today, she knew it could not be so, and the certainty filled her chest with a dull ache she could not dispel. The night before, she had walked alone with Elrond while Glorfindel dandled Merileth upon his knee. Elanor's foster-father had been uncharacteristically silent and heart-wrenchingly tender. So much had remained unspoken as they walked in starlight and shadow.

 _"_ _I shall miss you," she had said, marvelling as she spoke at the inadequacy of those four words. They fell abysmally short of the feelings which raged within her._

 _"_ _And I you," Elrond replied, low and heartfelt._

 _He had looked at her then, a look of paternal tenderness and pity. There was sorrow there for herself, Elanor knew, but beneath it a deeper current of pain which many trials had etched into Elrond's fathomless grey eyes. It was oft hidden by merriment and scholarly enthusiasm, yet she knew that it ran far below anything she could perceive. The loss of Arwen rankled with him particularly in that moment, Elanor knew. The young human woman was calmly certain that she was no substitute for the Evenstar; nevertheless, even the parting with his foster-daughter reignited the hurt that was in him at his parting with Arwen._

 _Elanor then slipped her hand into his. The parting was like a gaping void in her own heart, tempered by a burning empathy for the Elf who had taken her in. As unpleasant as this was for her, there was a fierce part of her soul which flared up in his defence; it longed to comfort him, to ease the bitter detachment. It was all that kept her emotions in check._

 _She would be brave—for her Father._

Elanor shook herself to dispel the memory. Elrond was in pain. As much as she had longed for an alternative to this parting, for hope of a forever-future with Glorfindel and her foster-family, there was naught she could do to amend the situation. Any protest, any word—she would not make things harder for Elrond, who was returning to his Celebrián's side… and leaving Arwen behind.

Glorfindel seemed to read Elanor's pensive thoughts, and did not press her. He merely continued to ride stirrup-to-stirrup with her, his blue eyes flicking between the road ahead and her furrowed brow.

The last hour of the ride passed with harrowing slowness. At length, they topped the rise and descended toward the Grey Havens, in the long firth of Lune. The Gulf was fed by a river from the north, expanding from a narrow point to a broad bay and thence to the sea. The headlands drew near to one another at the far entrance to the gulf, though they were lost in a salty haze as Elanor and the company halted in Círdan's domain.

Wordlessly, the wagons stopped. Glorfindel sprang from his mount and moved to help Elanor dismount with Merileth. Sheer moments later, they were gathered in a proud cluster near the gate's of Mithlond.

In other circumstances, Elanor would have found the Grey Havens beautiful. Situated right by the water's edge, it was filled with sweet ocean air. The buildings were of light stonework, and the grounds cobbled in rock of a similar hue. From a large house emerged a tall Elf with silver hair. Even having lived among the Elves for nigh on three years, Elanor still started at the sight of Círdan the Shipwright.

Unlike any other Elf she had seen, Círdan possessed a silver beard which fell below his collarbones. It was sleek and well-groomed, unlike Gandalf's iron-grey mane, and despite its rarity, suited the noble Teleri very well. He bowed to Elrond, who stood at the front of the company.

"All is now ready," the grey Elf said.

Elanor used those moments to grasp her composure with both hands and look at those around her. The travellers about her shimmered with the peculiar light of the Eldar. Gildor Inglorion was there, along with many other fair Elven folk. Elrond was enough to stir wonder in any heart, with his mantle of grey and a star upon his forehead, and a silver harp in his hand. Even from a distance Elanor could see a ring of gold with a great blue stone—Vilya, mightiest of the Three. Galadriel was near him, upon a lowered palfrey and robed all in glimmering white, like clouds about the Moon; for she herself seemed to shine with a soft light. On her finger was Nenya, the ring wrought of mithril, that bore a single white stone flickering like a frosty star. Nearby, just dismounted from his small grey pony was Bilbo Baggins, flanked on both sides by the young hobbits; Sam, stout and steadfast, and Merry and Pippin, tall and lordly for hobbits clad in tunics and fine chainmail. Other Elves comprised the remainder of the company, scarcely less lordly and noble than their leaders. Celeborn was absent, but there were others of Lórien.

Some weeks before, the Elven company had departed Imladris for the journey west. It had been surreal to pass through countryside which the Fellowship had travelled in the early days, seeing Weathertop and the Shire. Elanor's first sight of the Brandywine, of Hobbiton and Bywater, had been marred by a cloud of despair. Still, it was difficult to remain wholly gloomy in the company of the hobbits, and with the beautiful Shire all about her. Those days had been surprisingly merry, as they collected young Samwise and the other halflings on their journey west. They had livened the company considerably.

 _Odd to think that Frodo is not here,_ her inner voice mused. _This was his story, and now he is gone—and it will be Sam who goes over the sea, eventually._

She was brought back from her observations as Círdan led them toward the harbour's edge.

 _It's finally happening…_

Then Círdan led them to the Havens, and there was a white ship lying, and upon the quay beside a great grey horse stood a figure robed all in white awaiting them. As he turned and came towards them, Elanor saw that Gandalf now openly wore on his hand the Third Ring, Narya the Great, and the stone upon it was red as fire. Then those who were to go were to go were glad, for they knew that Gandalf also would take ship with them. But Elanor was even more sorrowful at heart, and it seemed to her that if the parting would be bitter, more grievous still would be the long road home—alone.

She watched as Gandalf turned to the cluster of hobbits, who had moved toward him with uplifted faces.

"It is not Sam, though, that has given it away this time, but you, Gandalf!" Pippin was saying, almost indignantly.

"Yes," said Gandalf; "for it will be better for several to ride back together than, one alone. Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."

Then Elanor saw that Gandalf farewelled each of the hobbits in turn, whilst the company of Elves waited patiently. To her surprise, he also bid Sam a safe journey back to the Shire.

"Do not tarry upon the road, Master Samwise, for your family awaits," Gandalf said, his voice kindly. "Yet I shall see you once more, and when you are ready there shall be a ship which shall bear you westward over the sea, to join the other Ringbearers who have already travelled thence."

It seemed to Elanor, then, that Sam grew teary, and stammered something incoherent toward his hairy feet. Gandalf smiled then, planted a friendly hand on the hobbit's shoulder, and moved towards Elanor and Glorfindel. Aside from the hobbits, they were the only ones who were to leave the Havens and travel back eastward.

"Lord Glorfindel; Lady Elanor," he said, smiling with his clear blue eyes.

Glorfindel returned the wizard's greeting, whilst Elanor attempted a watery smile.

"Days of farewell are oft full of grief; it gladdens me to see you in company with one another, that you might find comfort."

"Yes," Elanor murmured, whilst her husband merely swallowed hard.

Gandalf's eyes were kinder than Elanor had ever seen before in that moment, as he looked between the two, Eldar and Edain. Few beyond her foster-family and Georgia truly understood how both she and Glorfindel felt in these moments of sorrow; somehow, however, she knew Gandalf's eyes pierced her soul at that moment. The wizard's eyes were brimming with empathy. He gripped Glorfindel's hand firmly, planted a whiskery kiss on Elanor's forehead, and completed his farewells by tracing Merileth's cheek with his thumb.

"I wish you all health and happiness," he said—and was gone.

Elanor looked fiercely down at Merileth's pink face, desperate to quell the tears which welled up in her eyes. When she managed to look upwards, Elrond stood before them, Galadriel on his arm. Neither spoke.

Elanor could scarcely bear Elrond's grey gaze, let alone Galadriel's fathomless blue eyes. She looked back down at her baby, willing the moment to pass yet longing to hold it tightly to herself.

"Might I hold your child, Elanor of Lands Afar?"

The one addressed looked up sharply to see the Lady Galadriel, her hands extended. Gulping, Elanor nodded and released Merileth rather reluctantly. The merry baby gurgled and smiled up at the ageless Elf-woman who leaned over her. As Galadriel held the child, Glorfindel reached for Elanor's fingers and gripped them tightly. She clung to him with equal desperation, though the tears were no longer held in check.

For what felt like an hour, Galadriel held the small baby and stared into her face, her eyes lowered so her lashes lay like inky feathers upon her cheeks. Then, she spoke.

"There is much which is not within my power to grant, Glorfindel son of Idhrenor, and Elanor daughter of Elrond," she intoned, her musical voice haunting in its loveliness. "Much which I desire is beyond my grasp. Yet there is one thing I shall do for thy happiness, though it not be what you might wish, Lady of the Edain." She looked up then, her gaze falling like an x-ray upon Elanor. "You shall remain in Middle-earth, and dwell wherever you desire, for the length of your span. Thus shall you live, and thus shall you pass. Nevertheless, this shall not be the fate of thy child, the Rose of Imladris. She, and all of your offspring, shall be granted passage to Valinor with Glorfindel of the Noldor, and live within Tirion among their father's kin. This I declare, and it shall be done."

Elanor felt Glorfindel's grip on her hand tighten until her fingers throbbed. Her head swam.

 _Does she mean…?_

 _Yep. That's it._

 _Glorfindel—her shan't lose Merileth. At least he shall have that._

 _…_ _but it's not enough._

She wanted to cry. Her lungs screamed at the effort of holding it in. She wanted to shout at Galadriel— _it's not good enough! Do better! Why can't I go too? I'm going to lose him!_

The Elf woman, Elanor knew, perceived this. Her gaze drank it in, and she nodded, before passing Merileth to Elrond. Through her unfathomable age and wisdom, Elanor sensed Galadriel's understanding and a quiet lack of apology. She had done what she could. Merileth would go to Valinor.

Elanor would die in Middle-earth.

Then Elrond was speaking a blessing in Quenya over the baby which Elanor understood through intention rather than words, and two diamond tears glistened on Glorfindel's cheeks. Merileth was returned to them. Elrond kissed her forehead, and the company went aboard; the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth. The ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Elrond smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. It seemed to him that the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores, and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise—the home of his forebears, and the dwelling of his beloved. Still, as he disembarked the ship and was reunited with those who he knew, his thoughts dwelt upon the slim golden-haired woman who he had left behind with his daughter—who would never join them.

To Elanor, the evening only deepened to darkness as she stood at the Haven with Glorfindel; as she looked at the grey sea she saw only a shadow on the waters that was soon lost in the West. There still she stood far into the night, hearing only the sigh and murmur of the waves on the shores of Middle-earth, and the sound of them sank deep into her heart.

At last the small group of companions turned away—Elanor and Glorfindel, Merry, Sam and Pippin, and a small baby who had been given a wondrous gift too great for her to conceive. And, never looking back, they rode slowly homewards; they spoke no word to one another until they came to the Shire, but each had great comfort in their companions on the long grey road. The hobbits departed then, each for his own home, and the remaining threesome—Elf, Human, and blessed peredhel—continued together.

 _I guess that's it, then._

* * *

 **Woahhhh...**

 **So this (given away by the "penultimate" title) is our second-last instalment in the Elanor fic. *cries uncontrollably***

 **Now you know the fate of this family, and all that awaits is our final, [heartwrenching] chapter.**

 **I realise I'm going to cop a lot of criticism over this, but part of my desire for Elanor not to be a Mary-Sue is that the realistic will happen. I don't think it's crazy that Elanor and Glorfindel's kids would get granted a spot on a boat to Valinor, but it IS ridiculous that Elanor would. It's heartbreaking yes, but this story is not supposed to be an ideal fairytale. There is a message here - a message of love, a message of sacrifice, and Elanor's journey of learning to appreciate and embrace things in a way she couldn't before.**

 **I anticipate your reviews, whether you disagree with Elanor remaining behind or not, and I will hopefully give you her last chapter soon. It is a bittersweet finish, but I am satisfied with it.**

 **For the second-last time, Finwe signing off. x**


	50. The End

**Chapter 50 - The End.**

* * *

 **A NOTE BEFORE READING**

With this chapter, it is important to understand my concept of Elanor-Glorfindel's half-Elven children and their aging processes. I developed a simple calculation to work this out, so that they would appear to age at approximately half the speed of a normal human. However, this works so that in their childhood years, they developed as usual, and slow down as they age. Thus, we have the following calculation:

Their kids are mortal, and look normal till the age of 4. Then, you multiply by 0.436 and add 4 to calculate how old they look. (works out that at about 30-33 they are "of age", ie. 18).

Once they reach 65 (or looking approximately 30 years of age) it becomes 0.436 + 2 until death.

So…

Where x is the biological age and y is the appearance:

If x 4, then x = y.

If 65 x 4, then y = x * 0.436 + 4

If x 65, then y = x * 0.436 + 2

(NOTE: in these calculations, the asterix (*) stands for a multiplication sign).

I hope that this makes sense, and explains why the children look younger than their biological ages in some of the snippets. I thought this was important to clarify before reading. But, this done—carry on! Toward pain and ruin!

* * *

 _June 10_ _th_ _, 5 FO. (Fourth Age)_

Sunlight coaxed forth vibrant blossoms. Lilies opened dainty buds in the warmth of June, scattering the valley with a delicate frosting of white.

The valley was a magnificent place, rather like a cleft in the earth. Approached from most directions, it was almost impossible to stumble across. Many travellers missed a wondrous sight because of this. Despite sheer sides, isolation, and the depth of the fissure, it was exquisite. The rock walls were towering and graceful in their height, whilst the floor of the valley was split in two by a gushing river. It parted the rolling grass, shouting in its clear exuberance.

At one end of the valley stood a house. Truthfully, the title "house" was a rather ludicrous understatement. It sprawled over an extensive area in a haphazard fashion, spanning multiple levels and split by courtyards and walkways. Each frame, column and cornice was elegantly carved in the image of flora and fauna. Its intricacy and precision was beyond any human hand, and many visitors to this house were found spellbound by its magnificence. Beyond the "house" itself were a variety of other buildings and garden fixtures. The trees and shrubs surrounding it were both fragrant and fruitful, and the fountains were no less lovely than the main building. There was a stable block and forge, along with several outdoor terraces with trellis' and climbing vines forming a dappled ceiling.

For a house so large, it was unusually quiet on this early summer's day. Truth be told, it held few occupants compared to days of old. Many halls and rooms were now empty, swept clean and bare. There was something haunting about those rooms. As such, the occupants who remained tended to avoid the desolate wings.

Still, it was not entirely empty and silent. There were more than a dozen devoted occupants, and a small handful of these were outside on this balmy day. Any visitor could locate them, upon a springy lawn ornamented with tiny daisies, for they were loud and cheerful in their high spirits.

They were a merry party of four, two grown, and two small individuals with no less cheer than their supervisors. One of the adults was swinging a small girl by the hands. He was a tall individual of perfect stature; broad shoulders, narrow hips, and possessing lean, well-formed muscles. Standing at six-and-a-half feet, he had glistening gold hair which fell to his shoulders in a straight, silken mass. His eyes were bright, and he moved with the easy athleticism of his race. Narrow, clean-cut face; angular jaw; straight nose. His pointed ears protruded slightly from amidst his hair. Greater than all of these beauties, however, was the broad smile of perfect bliss which masked his countenance. His large hands held firmly the wrists of the tiny girl.

She was laughing with enjoyment to match his. Rich blonde hair hung in wispy ringlets over her small head. She looked to be about five or six years, and promised to be a woman of some height and beauty.

Beside this energetic pair were another two, seated more sedately upon a blanket—a woman and a baby boy. The boy could only be a year or two, and was being kept out of mischief by a very firm mother.

She was, perhaps, the most interesting of the party. She lacked the inhuman beauty of the Elvish man, yet she could not be called unhandsome. Her hair was the exact mirror of the small girl's, though thicker and curlier. She would have possessed a trim figure had she not been heavily pregnant. Her face was thin, with a pointed chin, a titled nose, broad smile, and deep-set eyes which mirrored the ocean. There was a mature, womanly attractiveness about her; this was no fleet girl, but a mother and a lady of wisdom. She was watching the man and girl with a silent smile, whilst simultaneously keeping a firm hold of the tiny boy's tunic.

"I am flying!" cried the girl, letting shout a tinkle of sweet laughter as her feet left the ground and she whirled above the grass.

"What manner of creature is this?" her father laughed, slowing so that the girl reconnected with the earth. "I am sure that _I_ am not a being of the air! You must have acquired such things from your mother, little Merry."

"I think so," Merileth replied gravely, though belied by the twinkle in her eyes—Elanor's eyes.

Glorfindel grinned. "Well, you've quite worn your Ada out; perhaps it is time to return and bother your mother."

Elanor raised an eyebrow at her husband, and shifted slightly on the picnic blanket. Her husband merely responded with a cheery wink.

"Can I go walking instead?" Merileth inquired, looking between mother and father. "And can I take Gael?"

Elanor glanced at her young son. Just shy of his second birthday, Gaelben promised to possess his sire's irrepressible energy and enthusiasm for life. He was not the image of Glorfindel, possessing features of both parents, but he undoubtedly matched his father's personality.

"Yes, so long as you remain within sight," Elanor consented, nodding. Merileth beamed and reached for her brother's hand.

"Come on, Gael! Let's go walking!"

Both parents watched with soft eyes as the two little ones scampered across the grass. Merileth darted between shrubs, cupping flowers beneath her slender fingers. Gaelben followed at a slower pace, supremely delighted with his freedom.

"Now Glorfindel," said Elanor, turning upon him with mock severity. "Do not tell me you are getting old and tired as a parent!"

The one addressed grinned impishly. "Tired? No. Rather weary of swinging about till I grew giddy? Yes, meleth."

"Good—I cannot have _you_ growing old," Elanor quipped, taking up a piece of sewing she had laid aside in her efforts to restrain Gaelben.

Glorfindel did not reply. He watched as his wife's slim fingers took up the piece of mending and began to wield the needle with honed skill.

The past five years had passed with uncanny swiftness in the peace of Rivendell. Despite having lost many of its chief residents with Elrond's departure, the Last Homely House was nevertheless a haven for those who dwelt there. Glorfindel could not imagine pleasanter days beneath the sky. Each moment was filled with interest, watching his small daughter reach for the world with open hands. Gaelben's birth had been a fresh delight, introducing a son to his experience— _and now_ , he thought, glancing at Elanor's blossoming form, _a third child as well._

Oh, he was happy. Elanor continued to grow in his estimation with each passing day, managing any and every situation with calm and skill. Sorrow had touched her—but it had not bittered her. Farewelling family had not soured her humour, her delight, her interest; she was as sweet and fresh as a spring. Grief was interwoven in a complex tapestry of emotion.

"Do you know it's impolite to stare?" Elanor inquired mildly, in Elvish. She twinkled at him, and Glorfindel realised his thoughts had strayed out of consciousness.

"Forgive me, melui; I was lost in thought."

"Thoroughly lost," his wife quipped. Her knowledge of Sindarin was, by this point, extensive; nevertheless, she always seemed able to infuse her speech with a cheerfulness and foreign intonation which was both captivating and endearing.

Glorfindel grinned again, before reaching out to take away the sewing Elanor busied herself with.

"Come, now; there 'tis little time in which we may speak uninterrupted with two little ones present. Put aside your work, and look at me with your love-struck gaze, wife."

"I would disagree and remind you of all the times that Erestor and the twins spirit our offspring away," mused Elanor, "but I do not really enjoy sewing, so I shall capitulate."

"What a wise woman I have married," Glorfindel chuckled.

"You had not worked that out by this point already?" she gasped, in mock horror. "When we have been married what—six years?"

Glorfindel held up his hands in self-defense. "I am fortunate you are heavy with child, or I know you should demand a fight to avenge your honour—and probably win."

" _Definitely_ win," Elanor muttered, switching back to the Common Tongue. Looking at her husband's teasing expression, she burst out laughing, and he was not long in joining her. It was Glorfindel's greatest joy to make her laugh.

Several minutes and one half-hearted tussle later, they sat close side-by-side. Glorfindel had one watchful eye on Merileth and Gaelben, who were playing happily. The other was fixed upon Elanor, scrutinising her smooth countenance while his arm held her close. His wife looked very content—exceedingly satisfied, largely pleased.

 _And yet… there is something a little out of the ordinary, for I cannot say she looks perfectly happy._

"Are you happy, vána?"

Elanor raised an eyebrow at him as if he had gone mad. "What makes you ask that?"

"Are you?"

"Yes—very."

Glorfindel studied her closely. Elanor did her best to ignore his inspection, staring pointedly at the scenery about them.

"You like it here?"

Elanor gave him a playful jab in the ribs then. "Dearest, if you continue with these questions, I shall wonder if you are giving me a hint!"

"I am not," he disputed, calmly. "I have merely been watching."

"Oh? And?"

"And whilst I could concur that you are enjoying yourself, I can tell that there is some very deeply-buried dissatisfaction which plagues you. You shall never tell me if left unprompted, so I sought to discover it for myself. And," he concluded, adopting an aggrieved air, "you are making it very trying to uncover it!"

The fit of laughter which consumed Elanor at that moment took several minutes to recover from.

"I—I'm sorry," she wheezed, "but your face really was _too funny_. _Oh_ , and the baby is kicking! Glorfindel!" She grasped his hand eagerly and brought it to rest just below her navel. As Glorfindel's large hand spread across her full stomach, he felt a sharp jab from within her. A delighted expression crossed his face.

"I can never understand the ways of babies," he admitted; "and somehow I find that tiny movement so enthralling!"

"It always is," his wife smiled, softly.

Glorfindel leaned across and kissed her gently on the temple. Her hair smelled sweeter than the June lilies.

"And still, you have not escaped from my interrogation, Elanor Ingrid, the Fair."

The lady addressed sighed.

"I do not know what answer to give, dearest. I am very happy—though you are right, there is a small feeling underneath which is hard to pinpoint and yet makes me feel a bit—off." She was silent for a moment. "It has taken quite a while to notice it there at all. We are always so beautifully busy with the children, and the twins; we've visited Georgia, and our days are full. I've only recently isolated the problem."

"I wish you would tell me, meleth." By this time, Glorfindel was watching her with heartfelt concern. He was profoundly thankful he had trusted his instincts enough to question her.

 _Please, Eru, let her be well—let it not be serious…_

"I believe I am a little lonely, and finding it very hard to live in a house of memories," Elanor said, at last. "Now before you jump in, and tell me I have plenty of company—you are quite right. I do. Yet as nice as it is here, Rivendell without Rivendell's _people_ is rather forlorn. It's like we've moved into a house that we loved because of its previous occupants! Oh, it always _was_ both of our homes... but it's not the same. I am sure you feel it, don't you?" She turned wide green eyes towards him.

 _So that is it…_

"I will confess that Imladris is vastly unlike the days of yore which are still fresh in my memory."

"I'm not seriously displeased, dearest, as I do love it here," she hurried to add.

Glorfindel smiled and kissed her cheek again. "I know. But, we had best think ahead; the twins intend to uproot soon and make a journey south-east, to Gondor, for they long to see Arwen again—and I believe Legolas has recruited their aid in a greater restoration of Gondor's gardens. It has been over two years since you last saw Georgia, Elanor; she has not yet met Gaelben. Erestor remains here because we do, as do the other Elves of the household. We ought to consider travelling to Gondor, and—" he added with some effort, "—perhaps moving down there permanently."

Elanor looked at him with such wonderment on his face that Glorfindel's heart thudded.

"Would—would you—"

"For my love? I should do aught that I could. I have never been able to refuse you, Elanor."

She buried her head in his shoulder, and Glorfindel stroked her hair. His eyes continued to follow the children's play; Gaelben was busy plucking buds from plants and throwing them, whilst Merileth made a wreath for her hair.

 _I am glad I know what concerns her,_ he told himself, firmly. _Yet it is no easy task to consider, departing Imladris. It is both our homes, though I suppose it holds more pain for Elanor than for I. It is a reminder of Elrond and of the Eldar—the life that she cannot have, and must farewell as she ages._

 _Knowing that, can you really deny her the longing to move elsewhere?_

 _…_ _no._

"I'm sorry," Elanor said, after a moment. "Oh, I do feel so emotional when I'm pregnant! Even if it's ridiculous for a woman of nearly thirty to cry. Ugh." She wiped her eyes. "I didn't know how much it does hurt, to be here, until I stop and think. I have kept myself busy to put it off, Glorfindel. Every place is a sharp reminder of all who have gone—I can hardly bear to go into Elrond's study, and I wouldn't except that the children love it there. I miss Georgia, being so far away." She shrugged helplessly. "I did not realise that one could come to both love and hate a place. Especially not Rivendell. It has always been so perfect! But as the months have passed, and with the next baby coming… it's more and more of a reminder that life is running away with me and I can't slow it down! Not to mention how ungrateful I feel, wanting to leave a place that I loved and longed for desperately during the war."

"I forget how the passing of the years seems to you," Glorfindel said, soothingly. One hand traced a gentle pattern on her shoulder. "If this place grows distasteful to you—we shall go."

Elanor squeezed his hand. "I appreciate that more than I can say, Glorfindel. But there's no need to rush. We must wait for the baby to be born, and be old enough to travel. I can stand some time yet. But—thank you."

"You are welcome."

At that, Elanor relaxed into his arms, and they both sat in silence to observe the little ones' antics. Glorfindel would not show his wife how much the prospect of departing Rivendell pained him. Rather than stirring memories of loss, the familiar halls were a beautiful reminder of days gone by. In Elrond's study, he saw that first day of meeting with Elanor nigh on eight years before. He saw her face, then almost childlike, as she learned to muddle her way about in an unfamiliar world. In the feasting hall dwelt many images, both past and present—and Elanor. Added to that were images of even earlier times, when he had first made the acquaintance of Elrond son of Eärendil. They were sweet memories.

He did not desire to leave, for that reminded him that years had slipped away and he was, ever so slowly, losing the woman he loved.

And yet, he would place Elanor first. He would elevate her needs, for Elanor had been transplanted from another world, and had farewelled her foster-father and friends for good. Glorfindel's thoughts of Imladris were like balls of sunshine, warmed by the knowledge that he would travel across the sea and be reunited with those whom he loved eventually… even if it meant a final farewell to the woman beside him. Elanor, more precious than the purest jewel—she had not the longevity of his outlook. She was a creature of moments. He would adjust his stride to match hers, and savour those days and minutes and hours.

 _To Gondor, then, we shall go. Perhaps we shall dwell in Minas Tirith, or within Ithilien._ Glorfindel glanced down at Elanor's soft head. _Wherever it be, I shall see her days perfumed by pleasure._

* * *

 _April 19_ _th_ _, 23 FO._

"Glorfindel—would you fasten this?"

Elanor turned and presented her back to her husband, gesturing awkwardly at the unlaced dress. "It's very difficult to tie myself."

"Certainly, meleth." The Elf moved to stand behind her, pulling the ties until the dress fit snugly around his wife's still-slim form.

Elanor stood silently, a smile tugging at her mouth as she felt Glorfindel moving about her and adjusting the garment.

"This is a beautiful gown," he remarked, pausing in his ministrations to kiss her neck. Elanor shivered slightly, her smile fading, then brushed the skirt fabric with her fingers. The gown she wore was one newly-commissioned. Elanor had opted for an unusual choice in selecting the burgundy-red silk, sewing it with Arwen's aid according to the latest fashions in Gondor. The neckline was a broad scoop, whilst the waist peaked to a v-shape. The skirts, without breaking tradition, were long and full. Once Glorfindel was done, Elanor twirled in place and looked up in his face with a smile.

"I am glad you like it; Arwen and I constructed it together."

"You are lovely." Glorfindel's long hands reached out to cup Elanor's face, locking his gaze on hers. "And exceedingly beautiful."

 _Oh…_

Elanor flushed bright pink and pulled his hands away with a nervous laugh. "Thanks, dear."

She moved toward their shared bed, brushing aside various discarded garments and gathering them in a pile.

 _These ought to be washed. I'll put them out for Brúnel… dear Brúnel… I ought to send her some of those tea leaves, they might help with her achy joints…_

The couple had been allocated a beautiful suite of rooms in a newly-refurbished wing of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. It was a lofty suite, especially set aside for Elanor and Glorfindel whenever they visited the White City. Despite its beauty, the room never really lost its hotel-like feel for Elanor, though she enjoyed her visits to the nation's capital; generally because visits meant family and friends.

"Elanor?"

"Mmhmm?" She turned around, smoothing her expression.

"Why is it that every time I speak to you of late, compliment you… you pull away?"

A knot formed in Elanor's stomach, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

 _And,_ she wanted to say, _why is it that you must push the issue?_

She steeled herself and shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. "I do not know what you mean."

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at her in stunned disbelief. "Elanor, I wedded you over twenty years ago. Do not expect me to be blind."

 _He's far too perceptive for his own good sometimes!_

 _You would never have married a stupid man, Elanor._

 _No, that's true._

Still fighting, Elanor titled her chin. "I just—I don't see that there's a problem."

Her husband's expression faded. His eyes spoke pure compassion, and he moved toward her slowly.

"Elanor." The word was imploring.

 _Don't you dare…_

He continued forward, reaching out for her and pulling her into his chest. She had no effort to resist; better to hide her face in his tunic fabric and forget the reflection, forget what the world looked like from the tired eyes of a woman of forty-eight.

 _Forty-eight._

"You are beautiful, meleth."

Elanor pulled away roughly.

"You cannot say that!" She grabbed his wrist and tugged him across the room to where a full-length mirror stood. "See?"

She stared aggressively at herself in the mirror. Very little had changed in essentials over the past twenty years. Elanor of old still shone out of the deep-set green eyes; her hair had lost none of its lustre, nor had her figure softened. The changes were more subtle, yet no less distasteful for the young woman. There were lines about her eyes which had developed in recent years. She was, she admitted, "good" for her age, bearing minimal wrinkles; but as she looked across at her husband's figure… her resolve broke and several tears leaked out.

"Elanor—"

She smothered her face with slender fingers. Salty tears leaked onto her skin. Glorfindel did not interrupt her, but simply pulled her close again and waited for the crying to subside. He had grown wise in the previous two decades.

 _And you love him, and he loves you,_ a persistent voice intoned. _He knew that you should age as mortals do, and he loves you nonetheless. Why do you draw back?_

Sucking in a breath, Elanor peeled her fingers from her wet face and looked up at her husband. He was still wordlessly perfect. She traced his jaw with one fingertip, and his blue eyes kindled with love.

"It's just—" Elanor began, fumbling for words. "Oh, I suppose I should have known it would be like this. But you don't know how hard it is, to be aging—become an _old woman_ —while you are…" She gestured mutely at his lengthy form.

Glorfindel's expression did not alter.

"Would it matter to you if I were the same?"

Elanor shook her head emphatically. "No. And there is nothing either of us can do; but I feel—foolish. And… not good enough. For you."

"Cast that thought back from whence it came!" her husband cried, indignation written in every line of his face. "Elanor, you are every bit good enough for me—too good, perhaps, in loving me." He relaxed to a smile. "If I proclaim to you that your appearance matters not, will you believe me and cease worrying?"

 _This is why you married him._

She gave a hesitant nod. "I'll try."

"Be decisive, dearest," Glorfindel laughed, grasping her chin between his fingers and kissing the side of her mouth. "You either shall, or you shall not." He kissed her several more times, travelling across her cheek and onto her neck.

Elanor laughed. The sound bubbled from her stomach and erupted in a light tinkle. "Alright, husband. Now stop that, or we won't be fit for company!"

* * *

Merileth Katharine hurriedly brushed off her skirts and breathed deeply. Her heart was palpitating slightly; her mother always hated tardiness, and she was cutting things very fine. It was, unfortunately, rather too easy to lose track of time whilst ensconced in the libraries. She had learned the error of her ways whilst racing in unladylike fashion toward her family's suite. By the library clock, she had realised with a sickening jolt that she only had ten minutes until they were expected to dine with royalty.

 _How is it that this always happens to me?_ she moaned inwardly.

Hoping that she looked vaguely respectable, Merileth opened the door and passed into the sitting room beyond.

"Merileth! Where have you been! And your hair so mussed. Come now, quickly," came Elanor's half-hearted remonstrance in Sindarin. Her daughter adopted a meek expression.

"Sorry, Mother."

Mother smiled at her, more of a twinkle in her eyes than Merileth had observed in many months. She was busily engaged with neatening her other two offspring. Father stood to one side, smirking slightly.

"That is alright. Just go and see to your hair—it's a little out of order. We'll be ready to go in five minutes."

Merileth nodded and slipped out of the room to the adjoining bathroom. She moved towards the mirror, already tugging pins out of her long, thick hair. The golden curls massed about her shoulders as she struggled to detangle the fastenings.

The face which looked back at her was slim with a pointed chin and small, smiley mouth. She had an upturned nose, finely arched eyebrows and deep-set eyes which moved from green to grey depending on her mood.

 _You are the image of your mother,_ Father oft said, winding his finger around one of her curls. The words caused Merileth to smile. She had never been as beautiful as her younger sister, or even her brother. They had inherited their father's Elvish good looks. Still, the reverence in her Father's voice when he compared her to Mother was enough to make Merileth treasure the resemblance, imperfect as it was.

However, the thin face had not matured as Elanor's had; it was the sweet face of a child just beginning the journey to womanhood; a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Merileth's years, in truth, numbered twenty-four, and it was peculiar growing up among mortals who aged at nearly twice the rate. She was mature in mind, at least, if not in body.

"Merileth Kate!"

"Coming!" she called in response, swiftly coiling her hair into a low bun and securing it. Several curls wisped becomingly near her ears and at the nape of her neck.

 _And I suppose that's as good as it will ever get._

She hurried back out of the bathroom, to discover the rest of her family assembled and ready to go. Her father, as usual, was neatly attired in Elvish garb. Beside him stood Gaelben, who appeared as a handsome boy of twelve with light blonde hair hanging to his shoulders. He shared traits with both parents, though he had Elvish beauty and promised to attain his father's inches.

"Where were you this afternoon, Merry?"

Merileth glanced at her younger sister, Hÿril. The girl was two years her brother's junior, and her grey eyes sparkled with unspoken mischief. Unlike both of her siblings, Hÿril's hair was darker, a deep sandy blonde. She was frequently compared to their Aunt Georgia by her parents.

Merileth shrugged. "In the library."

Hÿril appeared a little disappointed at the mundaneness of her response, before turning to her mother.

"Can we go now, Mum?"

"Certainly," replied Mother, her face breaking into smiles. As Hÿril scampered towards the door, a cheerful Gaelben in tow, Mother winked across at Merileth. The latter brought up the rear with her father.

"What books were you perusing, Merileth?"

She smiled up at her father. "A history of Erebor and Dale, Ada."

"Leaving your Elvish history untended?" Father quipped, nudging her gently in the ribs.

"I believe I was more than amply instructed in the history of the Eldar in my early childhood," came her swift response; "besides, Mother always reminds us about having a well-rounded education!"

Father's eyes softened, and he grinned again. "Indeed, little Kate."

He slipped an arm about her shoulders as they continued along the black and white marbled corridors. A few minutes later, the party arrived at a majestic set of ebony double-doors. Elanor, leading the party, opened them deftly and they slipped inside.

The room beyond was thoroughly familiar to Merileth. It was a long room, extending along the western side of the citadel. The ceiling was vaulted and the outward wall was broken by a series of arches leading directly to the tiled balcony beyond. Warm spring scents filtered through, and the young woman always found great delight in its sweet smell and open-air style. It was a room very much after the Elvish part of her soul—even if the human, practical side wondered what would happen if the weather grew bad. Today, however, the sun shone, and the entire quasi-room was gilt like a palace.

"Ah! They're here at last!" cried someone.

The room was furnished a little peculiarly. There were several rugs upon the pale marble floors, potted plants artfully positioned, and in the centre a sturdy table in a dark timber. It was lined with chairs, and more than half of these were already occupied.

"Yes, we are here," smiled Mother, as Father hastened forward to pull out her chair. "Forgive us for our tardiness."

"It is of no matter," Aunt Georgia smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze her sister's hand as Merileth and the others took their seats. Half a moment later, the food arrived and the company resumed its uproarious chatter.

Lunches such as these were always a joy for Merileth. It was very nice to watch her parents and their companions in such easy chatter—and, she admitted, exceedingly satisfying to consider that they were not merely friends, but royalty. For there, at the head of the table, sat King Aragorn—Uncle Aragorn, in private; very tall and lordly, his dark hair now frosted in places but ever as handsome as of old. Had he been dressed in rags, Merileth was sure he would still manage to be impossibly regal.

 _Still, it would be hard not to look like a King, when one has Aunt Arwen as one's wife…_

Merileth's gaze turned to the woman who occupied the far end of the table. Aunt Arwen was a lifelong friend of her father's, and still caused Merileth's heart to flutter with childish admiration every time she spoke. Her hair was unspoiled raven black, her skin as moonlight, and her eyes possessing the depth of a dusky sky. Aunt Arwen was also Mother's foster-sister, and had a soft spot for all of the latter's offspring. Merileth had spent a great many sweet hours in the company of the Queen of Gondor.

She smiled to herself at that, mind straying to pleasant memories. Hunger dragged her back, and she made more of a concerted effort to devour the flavoursome meal Minas Tirith's chefs had prepared.

"Elfwine!" came a warning call. Merileth's eyes turned to her cousin.

Despite the fact that Elfwine was only fifteen, he already appeared far older than Merileth. He was a handsome boy, possessing elements of both parents which rendered him at once rugged and fair. At this particular moment, he was very delicately tying Hÿril's braid to the back of her chair. Merileth's younger sister had turned to converse with Lady Éowyn, and Elfwine had seized his moment whilst her back was turned. He had made good progress by Aunt Georgia became aware of her niece's plight.

The young boy sent his mother a pained look. For the first time, Hÿril noticed what had occurred, and promptly landed a solid punch on Elfwine's arm. He gaped indignantly at his young cousin. To her right, Lady Éowyn struggled to contain a smirk and even Georgia strained mightily for composure.

"Enough, Elfwine," came a curt word from Uncle Éomer.

Merileth smiled. They were _all_ there today—Uncle Aragorn and Aunt Arwen; Uncle Éomer, Aunt Georgia and Elfwine; Lord Faramir with Lady Éowyn and their sons, Elboron and Hador; Lord Boromir, Uncle Legolas and Gimli, and Merileth's own beloved family.

It was a rare day that all of them gathered together in that fashion, for the various leaders were frequently busy in the administration of their own realms. Of Faramir and Éowyn the young peredhel saw a good deal, for Elanor and Glorfindel's family had established themselves beneath the mighty trees of Ithilien. Merileth treasured these moments, glancing across the table between the members of the party. She loved her young cousins, adopted and blood-related alike, and had scarcely less affection for the other assorted individuals amongst them. Legolas' countenance was smooth and handsome still, whilst the Men present had grown lines as they progressed past the milestone of a half-century. And yet, there was no loss of kindness in Faramir's grey eyes, nor beauty diminished in Éowyn's fair face; Uncle Éomer was as gruff yet fiercely loyal as Merileth had ever remembered him, Gimli's temper as easily roused, and Mother—Mother had not altered.

Merileth had gathered many such images over her score of years; she took great comfort that, whilst the seasons moved—nothing changed in essentials. Elfwine would continue to tease and prod, Aunt Georgia would never cease laughing, Lord Boromir would observe with silent lips and twinkling eyes, and Father would lend his quick wit for the benefit of the party.

 _If nothing ever really changes_ , Merileth thought, _I shall be a happy woman indeed…_

* * *

 _March 18_ _th_ _, 69 FO._

Ithilien was filled with the musical rustling of the trees. Winter was still a near memory, and many trees had yet to don their mantle of blossoms. The evergreens bore the task, however, whisking back and forth in the cool air.

The land between the Pelennor and Mordor was a sweet land, and never more so than in the years following the War of the Ring. Then the Elves had come, touching with practiced hands the life which grew there and causing it to burst forth in a flurry. Gardens had formed beneath their fingers, a riot of buds and petals. All traces of filth had been washed away, and the canopy of leaves had come to shelter the settlements within.

This part of the forest was quiet, notwithstanding the music of leaves. Only one building broke the landscape; a peculiar erection, mixing various types of architecture in a haphazard way with surprisingly pleasant results. It was fairly low and large, built in a U-shape out of irregular stones. Between its three wings was a courtyard which was accessed by wide archways coming from the house. It appeared well established, for creeping vines had ensconced themselves across the stonework and tiles of the roof.

Inside, the rooms were generous and airy. None of its occupants desired to be stifled for lack of air, and many windows were left open year-round.

Nevertheless, as Glorfindel stood in one room on that early spring day, it felt as if the walls should press him into oblivion.

Before him was the large bed he had shared for many years now. The coverlet was embroidered and white, unruffled save for a slight lump which indicated the presence of a person. The lump was small and shrivelled with age, yet the face which looked out of the bed from the pillows was bright.

"Glorfindel, dearest, do sit down."

Glorfindel, staring at the foot of the bed, swallowed hard.

"Glorfindel, please."

With a sigh, he drew his eyes back to her face—the face that he loved, treasured, and longed for more than anything.

Elanor was watching him steadfastly. As the rest of her had diminished, her eyes had never lost their brightness or loveliness.

 _"_ _Only her eyes retain their beauty—and yet seem overlarge in a countenance so thin."_

Glorfindel struggled to meet her loving look. Just as he had observed those many years before, with Elrond and Gandalf in Rivendell, he was struck by the words now. Her skin was lined and papery. The once-capable arms were fragile, her body shrunken to a miniscule size in her slimness. Yet her eyes—they were wonderful. Deep and light-flecked as the sea, full of hope and love.

"Please, meleth; why don't you speak?" she asked, voice thin and raspy.

Glorfindel moved slowly and sat in the armchair by her bedside. Her weak fingers reached for his, scrabbling on the coverlet. He took them between his own supple hands. Had one not seen the love in both faces, one might have believed that the Elf stood above a grandmother. As it was, his countenance burned with painful passion.

"You must rest, Elanor; eat, and rest, and be well."

He watched as Elanor's lips turned up in a smile then. She had not forgotten how to laugh.

"I do not think rest will affect the cure you desire, husband," came her irrepressible sally. "I am sorry, I shall have to disobey you… just this once." Her feeble strength did not allow for much, yet she squeezed his hand as best she could.

Glorfindel sobbed.

He hated death, hated death with all of the passion in his sensitive spirit. His body raged with it, pulsing and throbbing in a fury of righteous indignation.

 _She does not deserve to be taken! She should not! Why must this happen? Why must Elanor, sweetest and most beautiful of all beings, be ripped from me so cruelly? From our children? Answer me, Eru Ilúvatar, if you know aught of compassion!_

His mind screamed, pouring forth a tirade of wrath.

Death was new, unfamiliar, repulsive. Death was not part of anything Glorfindel had known, and its ugly hand stole upon that which he loved.

He hated it.

For weeks, he had been consumed by his ire. His eyes looked only upon his wife, as if to pour into her the vitality and youth of the Eldar. He struggled and strained with all that was in him—desperate.

Elanor shifted slightly on the bed.

Immediately, the tempest shifted backwards. His mind was wholly devoted to the sweet, aged face before him; his fury formed the backdrop upon which the scene was projected.

"You know," Elanor whispered, with a soft smile, "I have learned a lot of things since I appeared on the plains of Cardolan, Glorfindel Goldflower." Pause. "I have learned how to start fires, to string bows, to sew and to hunt. I believe I was almost considered useful by I got too tired to move." She smiled again, and several tears marred Glorfindel's face. As Elanor looked at him, several droplets of moisture formed on her own cheeks.

"Elanor—"

"Hush," she remonstrated him lightly. "I may not have long, and you really ought to let me finish."

 _Eru, must she be so brave!_

"When I married you, I was angry. I was angry because all I could think of was the fact that we would be in this situation someday—this very situation. And, it seemed to me that all you wanted to do was ignore it. On our honeymoon, half of my mind was utterly consumed by worry. What would we do? Would we talk about it? How would we know?" She broke off, a fit of coughing rattling her tiny form. Glorfindel smoothed her forehead until she was composed, and continued.

"Then, one day," she rasped, "you said something; you said that you would not leave me, or our baby, for Valar or any other place. You said you'd stay. And you did, and little Merileth came to lighten our days. Why, she's a woman now! I can scarcely believe it."

"Nor can I," Glorfindel agreed, voice breaking.

"Now that taught me something. I thought—I thought that we had to talk it out, to do it _my_ way, for our situation to work." The words were slow, stilted; Glorfindel clung to them with every fibre within him, treasuring the labour of love which she poured out. "Then, you said you would stay. There was no discussion, no question, no agreement. We did not reason our way through; you loved me, you stayed. You taught me something then, my darling—"

Glorfindel wept in earnest then, pulling her hand close to his face and covering it in salt tears.

"Oh, Elanor, if—"

"Don't you dare say you wished you'd done that differently," came her surprisingly energetic reply. "I wouldn't have changed that for the world. It didn't fully hit me until I said goodbye to Georgia that day, when she was riding down to her wedding to Éomer. She made me promise to appreciate love. She reminded me that, wherever we were, and however limited our lives are, we have love."

 _Love—and heartbreak! Loss!_

Elanor was silent for a moment, watching him. It was as if she could see into his eyes, see the storm which howled within. One tiny, shaky hand lifted off the coverlet, and she touched his cheek.

"Meleth-nin, dearest of all; do not rage in loss. We love. We have loved. And you shall continue to love, for Merileth and Gaelben and Hÿril. They shall need you, and you will take them across the sea and continue loving them for the rest of time. Promise me."

Glorfindel shook his head. No. That was not how things should be.

"Elanor, you should be with us," he cried, in anguish. "There should be no separation! You should sail upon the boat to the lands of the Eldar, see your children grow to full stature! This is not how things should be!"

His voice rose in a steady crescendo until it broke. The whirlwind peaked, and tears began to fall furiously. He fell to the floor, kneeling beside her bed and weeping onto the coverlet beside the only one he wanted forever—the one who was leaving.

"Promise me, Glorfindel; please."

It was as if the words fell like a single note; a clear, bright sound which pierced the inescapable rage which drove him. He continued to cry until all tears were spent. Then he breathed.

"I promise, Elanor."

She smiled. "Good. There isn't any use fighting it, dear. I tried. It only made me weary. But I have clung to the beautiful memories. We have so many, Glorfindel, so many—" Elanor choked, and Glorfindel brushed away the tears.

"We do."

"Keep them," she urged, strong. "Please. Write them down. Teach our children. Share the full story, meleth—keep it alive for yourself, for them."

Glorfindel nodded. His words were spent, and his heart burned.

Elanor's face grew peaceful. Then she gave a playful smile; faint, altered, aged, yet fresh.

"I am glad," she gasped, "that you are well-behaved for me on my last day. It is very considerate of you."

Her lungs moved, taking in air with a colossal effort. She exhaled. Eyes fluttered closed. Her hand-hold softened.

And Elanor breathed no more.

* * *

 **THE END**

* * *

 **NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR ON AGES AND NAMES**

Merileth Katharine born April 3021

Gaelben Rínor born July, Year 3 of the Fourth Age

Hÿril Rhoben born August, Year 5 of the Fourth Age

Merileth, as articulated in the previous chapter, means "rose". Katharine means "pure".

Gaelben is a name which means "pale/glimmering", whilst Rínor, his unmentioned second name, refers to "remembrance". This was chosen because Gael is a form of remembrance for both parents, as well as referring to Elanor's longing for his heritage to be remembered.

The final child, Hÿril Rhoben, is named for being "ready for action" and "untamed/wild" respectively. She is called thus in homage to Georgia. She is most alike to her aunt in personality and attributes.

* * *

 **WELL...**

 **It is done. I don't think I can quite articulate how hard this was to write, to express Glorfindel's pain, Elanor's growth and the passing of the years. And yet, as hard as it was, it also felt right. Once I realised that this was the course I needed the story to take, it seemed to flow so beautifully. As much as I know I shall cause pain with the ending, I am satisfied with it.**

 **It has been a long journey - almost a year to the day, exactly - since I began Elanor's tale. She started through a conversation with a friend about fanfiction, and the crazy thought that maybe I, Emily, could write a half-decent fanfiction that people would read. 50 chapters, 220,000 words and over 230 followers later and I have been so blessed to realise that there are people who have come to love Elanor as I have. Those of who you have read and reviewed and kept up with her story have given me a great deal of joy. I wrote Elanor for myself, but there is a fairly substantial part of her that is there for you, too.**

 **And so this is it. Perhaps I will add another chapter when I have been able to fully encapsulate my emotions, but right now I'm a teary mess and it's over.**

 **I may even include an epilogue, but it will be brief indeed. This truly is the end.**

 **So I shall conclude by offering my most heartfelt thanks - this has been a delightful journey. I am so grateful.**

 **Tapping out for the last time...**

 **FINWE.**


End file.
